The Living Dead
by Cellzo
Summary: She returns to the BAU eight months later, Doyle dead. However, her once friends are giving her the cold shoulder and with nobody there for her, she falls into a depression. Can the team say sorry before they lose her - for real?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Living Dead

**Rating: **T for violence and cursing

**Summary: **She returns to the BAU six months later, Doyle dead. However, she doesn't receive a warm welcome, and is no longer trusted. Her once-friends are giving her the cold shoulder and, unable to stand it and with nobody there for her, she falls into a depression. Can the team come together, say sorry, and save her before its too late?

**A/N: **Okay, so Prentiss is my favorite character, let it be known, and I thought Lauren was an _amazing _episode. I could go on forever, but I won't. And I know I shouldn't have started this since I have an NCIS fic to work on (I will!) but this idea wouldn't leave me alone and I just couldn't think of anything for my NCIS one. So, please enjoy, and the chapters will be shorter in this fic, and the writing style a bit different. Tell me what you think. R&R! I have a few song quotes specifically for some chapters, but not all chapters will have a quote, and this chapter's quote is the main one. Lastly - I am my own beta, so I edit all these chapters on my own.  
**

* * *

**

_"We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man_... _Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness." –Dumbledore

* * *

_

Eight months. For eight damn months each of them were forced to come in every morning, as if everything was normal, and see the empty desk. Every morning Morgan would sigh, shutting his eyes in frustration. Reid would look lost and defeated. Garcia still whimpered at the threat of tears every time she was forced to remember and Morgan no longer had it in him to console her. Rossi exasperatedly rubbed his forehead. Hotch made a deliberate attempt to keep his eyes away. Seaver had taken time off after the original incident, having not been mentally prepared for something so traumatic. In the meantime, JJ was filling her spot, and every morning JJ shook her head and felt even worse at the fact that she had to keep such a heavy secret. If Hotch felt similarly, he was doing a good job of not showing it.

They had tried not to allow her death (or simply her departure for two of them) to affect them too strongly because they knew very well that she wouldn't have liked that. However, JJ had become quieter, loathing the fact that she had to bite her tongue whenever she saw her teammates come in every morning. She knew the truth, but sometimes, ignorance was bliss, as they said. On the side, she was also concerned for Emily, but not for the obvious reasons. JJ had no doubt that her friend would be able to take care of herself, but when she returned, she had a bad feeling in her heart that told her the team would not be happy with her deceit and negligence in fully informing them before anything had happened. In fact, out of all of them, JJ would probably be the most welcoming, since she hadn't actually been there when this whole thing started. Hotch, Morgan, Rossi, Reid, Garcia, and Seaver had been the ones she'd kept secrets from. Hopefully, they wouldn't be _too _pissed and they'd learn to forgive her.

That's why she dreaded the day when it came. At first, she hadn't known for sure, but as the day progressed, she felt like it was the beginning of another end.

* * *

A figure wearing a large beige overcoat with black heels hiding from underneath it walked out of the elevator and into the bullpen that day. Her hood was up and her head was bent, looking down at the ground underneath her. Softly, she announced in a heavy Italian accent, "I am here to see Agent Hotchner."

Instantly Morgan and Reid looked up, both instantly wary and apprehensive. "I'll go get him," Morgan said slowly, gesturing to Reid to keep an eye on the stranger while he fetched the Unit Chief.

If Reid was afraid, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed more inclined to take place in a friendly conversation. Despite his disposition, he wasn't able to get much out of her other than the fact that she was from Italy and she was here with an important announcement. When Reid tried to coax more out of her, she refused to say anything.

Morgan came back a minute later, trailing after a slightly curious Hotch. When the pair approached, Hotch politely asked, "Can I help you?"

The woman nodded under the hood. "Thank you, Agent Hotchner," she began formally. "May we speak privately?"

Hotch recognized that Italian accent better than any he had heard before. He was careful not to let this show as he motioned towards the door to his office and lead her there, Morgan and Reid watching curiously. Morgan left once more to see if Rossi knew anything while Reid sat hesitantly at his desk and only joined Morgan a few moments later, watching as the door to Hotch's office closed. At least Hotch didn't seem concerned, which put his genius mind temporarily at ease.

* * *

"So soon?" Hotch inquired quietly in case anyone outside overheard as the anonymous woman sat down.

Her head was still bent even in the privacy of Hotch's office, lest anyone look in and see something they were completely unprepared for.

"I shot him," she said, the majority of the heavy Italian accent gone, but her voice was quiet. Hotch, in response, merely nodded and sat behind his desk.

"You want to return?" It was her turn to nod.

"More than anything," she admitted, her voice wavering for a moment with blanketed emotions.

Hotch stood and briskly left his office, leaving her on her own. She only shifted in her seat, edgy, nervous, and anxious. When Hotch returned the blonde media liason was accompanying him and she quickly took a seat next to the woman, resisting any contact, still aware that some overly inquisitive team member could be peeking in through the blinds.

JJ glanced up at Hotch. "We have a new case… Our UnSub is kidnapping groups of girls, anywhere from two to seven and beating them all to death."

"Briefing," Hotch said simply, exiting his office closely followed by the stranger and JJ. While the pair disappeared into the briefing room, JJ collected Morgan, Reid, and Rossi from Rossi's office, which made her uncomfortable since she had no doubt it was about their visitor. Finally, she retrieved Garcia from her cave and together, they were the last ones to join the others at the briefing room.

Inside, everyone was situated around the table with the exceptions of JJ, Hotch, and the woman, who was sitting patiently on the couch. Before JJ could jump into an explanation of their newest case, Hotch looked over expectantly at the woman who stood.

"Everyone, please welcome our new agent," he said, giving nothing away. "She'll be helping us with this case."

A few moments later and Morgan was the first one to speak. "Well?" He asked when nobody did anything. "Do we get a name?"

The woman rolled her shoulders uneasily. Yet again, nobody responded. Hotch and JJ just looked extremely patient.

Deciding that it didn't matter how big her entrance was, the woman finally spoke. She had the same diluted Italian accent that she had had in Hotch's office, though it wasn't forcibly maintained; the heavy one had been for show so that her teammates wouldn't suspect a thing. The smaller scale one was real. "Doyle's dead."

Before the team could process this or even begin to try to understand it, the hood was down and the unmistakable face of the once thought to be dead was revealed. She shot a somewhat scared glance at JJ, who nodded her encouragement and offered a small smile. She licked her lips and smiled in return, daring to set her gaze back on the team.

Reid was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Rossi was looking away, and Morgan looked beyond taken aback. Garcia was shaking her head, muttering something under her breath about dreaming, tears already beginning to leak down her cheeks.

Reid ended up being the one to break the silence. "Emily?"

* * *

**Please R&R, let me know if I should continue.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay guys, I realized that I made a mistake last chapter in the summary. It said six months when it should have said eight, my bad. Please forgive me. Anyway, here's the next chapter, and let me tell you this has easily started out as one of my most popular stories yet. Keep it coming!**

* * *

_"Trust takes months to build, but only a minute to break." -Unknown_

* * *

_Before the team could process this or even begin to try to understand it, the hood was down and the unmistakable face of the once thought to be dead was revealed. She shot a somewhat scared glance at JJ, who nodded her encouragement and offered a small smile. She licked her lips and smiled in return, daring to set her gaze back on the team._

_Reid was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Rossi was looking away, and Morgan looked beyond taken aback. Garcia was shaking her head, muttering something under her breath about dreaming, tears already beginning to leak down her cheeks._

_Reid ended up being the one to break the silence. "Emily?"

* * *

_

"You're alive?" Morgan demanded harshly, which apparently Emily had been prepared for. She sighed, accompanied by a sad smile.

Before Emily could say anything, which might have been for the better, JJ patiently cleared her throat. When all eyes were on her once more, she subtly reminded them that there were pictures of beaten and battered people behind her on a giant screen and that there were more urgent matters to attend to. A collective murmur of agreement rose for a moment and settled once more. Emily fidgeted, having no available seat around the table, and instead settled for the couch off to the side. Nobody looked at her with the exception of a momentary glance from JJ.

Undeterred, JJ jumped headfirst into the case. "Small groups of up to two to seven people are being found in New York, beaten to death. The more of them there are, the younger their age group. The majority are girls, but in the larger groups there have been boys," JJ pointed to a picture of the only group of seven. They were teenagers, easily overpowered, and positioned like sardines. In this picture, there were four girls and three boys.

"So the boys were in the wrong place at the wrong time?" Rossi suggested and JJ nodded.

"It appears that way. The girls all showed signs of sexual trauma; however, they were cleaned off so no traces of semen could be recovered."

There were three pictures in total on the screen, including the one of the group of seven. There was a group of five, consisting of four girls and one boy, and a group of two, both girls. All of them positioned in the same fashion and all of them with obvious bruises, cuts, and scrapes covering nearly every inch of the parts of their bodies that were exposed.

"All of them have had their IDs confirmed." She pointed first to the picture of the two women, who both looked to be in their early forties. "The first one is Joey Torres and Brittany Willes. Both in their early forties, no physical traits in common." Next she pointed to the picture of five, who looked to be younger, perhaps in their twenties. "The group of five victims are as follows from left to right: Natalia Bensfield, Jared Mitcheld, Lola Clarkson, Maya Randle, and Samantha Punnings. The group of seven consists of Randall Wellings, Kristen Scher, Donald Chur, Michael Eidens, Rachel Stein, Roslyn Cunner, and Josephine Fieldston."

"How'd he manage to subdue all of them?" Morgan inquired.

"Tox screen reports show traces of chloroform for all of them," JJ replied evenly.

Finished for now, the team left one by one to prepare themselves individually for the plane ride to New York until only JJ and Emily were left. Emily stood, looking a little dejected, but JJ walked over to her and draped her arm over the brunette's shoulders.

"They didn't even look at me," Emily shook her head.

"Just give them some time to come around. It's a lot to take in," JJ soothed, dropping her arm to her side once more and leading Emily out the door. "Now, c'mon, we're going to the Big Apple!"

* * *

The jet took off with the BAU team, for the most part, scattered in various seats. Reid had sat himself down by the chess table and Rossi, who pitied the younger agent, had wasted no time in joining him and he continued to fruitlessly challenge the genius in the game, no matter how many times he lost and was bound to lose. As Rossi glued his eyes to the checkered board, he thought about their "newest addition." Out of all of them, he should have been the most understanding, and he was, for the most part. Except for the fact that he couldn't seem to get passed her fake death. That had been a hard blow not only to him, but the whole team, and watching them crumble before his eyes was just as difficult as experiencing it firsthand, if not worse. Watching other people suffer so terribly for someone else's actions was never an easy thing to get over. But surely there had to have been another way to go about securing safety for everyone involved that wasn't so emotionally damaging. _She should have at least tried harder,_ he thought, _instead of just deciding to leave us._

Meanwhile, as the two battled in chess with the same end result every time, Hotch and Morgan ended up sitting across from one another. Hotch was busying himself with the case files, reluctant to face the woman that had just returned to the BAU. He too knew he should have been one of the ones to forgive her and welcome her back with open arms, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not only had she withheld extremely significant information pertaining to a case _and _her and the team's safety, she had abandoned his team. It was childish in his position to blame her for upping and departing, considering he knew all of the details, but he couldn't help feeling the way he did. He couldn't say that he had forgiven her, even with his complete knowledge of the situation that had forced her to take the actions she had, no matter how drastic, and he wasn't sure if he would any time soon. All their trusts and bonds with her had been betrayed—it wouldn't be so simple to excuse, as much as he wished it was.

Morgan was drowning himself in his music, his headphones covering his ears and the volume of his music on so high that Hotch could faintly hear it, but chose to say nothing. Morgan was easily the angriest out of all of them and didn't bother hiding it. He was silently steaming, visibly as well by the expression plastered on his face, letting the blasting music take over the majority of his senses as he kept his gaze out the window. Nobody on the team blamed him for the way he felt, Emily included, and in truth he felt similarly to Hotch and Rossi, just on a much larger scale and with both focal points melded together. Morgan was pissed at Emily, to say the least, for everything she had said and done ever since she had learned of Doyle's escape from prison and up 'till now. Furious, he refused to pay any mind to the woman that was silently pleading for her family to welcome her back, but he didn't see that happening any time soon, much like the rest of the team, JJ included.

The plane was silent for a long time. Eventually, JJ had made to sit next to Emily, even though the two didn't share any words. Emily looked forlorn and full of regrets, so JJ shortly left her to her own devices and instead sat next to Hotch to quietly review the case. The blonde brought up the fact that in each group, the times of death were different for each person, and Hotch voiced their combined musings that their UnSub had forced the remainder of the group to watch while he mercilessly beat and for the girls, raped, a member until they were dead. For some, the bruises and cuts had had a small period of time to heal, which implied that he had taken a break between beatings, but for what, they couldn't be sure at the present.

They decided to do the usual checking of any possible outside connections, so JJ pulled out her laptop and set it on the table in front of them. They didn't bother Morgan, Rossi, Reid, or Emily, assuming that they would join if they felt they could, which, apparently, they did. Shortly after booting up the computer, Morgan removed his headphones and turned his head, Reid checkmated Rossi and the duo removed themselves from their spots at the chess table and came and bent over the laptop, and even Emily managed to drift over, situating herself behind all of them. They purposely didn't give her any acknowledgment.

Finally, Garcia's face appeared on the screen and it was obvious she had been crying by her red eyes and the tear stains on her cheeks, but the team said nothing as she typed away, doing exactly what she knew they were about to ask of her. "There are only connections between the groups; the two women went to high school together, the five attended college together and recently graduated, and the seven go to high school together as well. Nobody in the groups collided with someone else," she reported solemnly, dismissing any ideas that they had a common enemy.

"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch automatically said, but apparently Garcia wasn't finished yet.

She had glanced up as soon as she had finished reporting her findings, looking deceived and hurt. They could guess what she was going to say before she said it, but she went ahead anyway. "Miss Emily Prentiss, how on _earth _could you do this to me? To us? Just _leave us like that? _I felt for you for a while, but now… now I can't _possibly _understand how you could do something so cruel!" Emily shifted uncomfortably behind them, and Morgan turned briefly to glare at her. The rest of the team looked away because they all knew what Garcia was telling them, or more directly Emily, was true and straight from the heart. They weren't about to interrupt.

"I thought you were my friend!" With that final declaration, the screen closed and a sniffling Garcia had disappeared without another word, leaving Emily partially heartbroken and the rest of the team touched and/or fueled by Garcia's display. The rest of the plane ride was as silent as the dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**I've been getting plenty of positive reviews and ideas (intentionally or not) so I hope this answers a few questions. I know my writing can be difficult to understand at times, so bare with me. Special thanks to **susannah2000 **and **Silvereyes12 **for chatting with me and giving me some ideas for what to write. Thanks guys! Oh, and by the way, in case I haven't mentioned, I don't own Criminal Minds or anything to do with it. It's just a great show. Anyways, R&R!  


* * *

**

_"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch automatically said, but apparently Garcia wasn't finished yet._

_She had glanced up as soon as she had finished reporting her findings, looking deceived and hurt. They could guess what she was going to say before she said it, but she went ahead anyway. "Miss Emily Prentiss, how on __earth __could you do this to me? To us? Just __leave us like that? __I felt for you for a while, but now… now I can't __possibly __understand how you could do something so cruel!" Emily shifted uncomfortably behind them, and Morgan turned briefly to glare at her. The rest of the team looked away because they all knew what Garcia was telling them, or more directly Emily, was true and straight from the heart. They weren't about to interrupt._

_"I thought you were my friend!" With that final declaration, the screen closed and a sniffling Garcia had disappeared without another word, leaving Emily partially heartbroken and the rest of the team touched and/or fueled by Garcia's display. The rest of the plane ride was as silent as the dead.

* * *

_

_"The first step is always the hardest."__ –American English Proverb

* * *

_

For the rest of the plane ride, the tension was hanging in the air, thick enough that one could cut a knife through it. Everyone had resumed their positions, with the exception of Emily stealing off into the plane's bathroom. Reid had taken to simply staring blankly at the chess board, occasionally pushing a piece around, but not actually engaging in play. The young man was deep in thought, and it didn't take a profiler to figure that one out. His thoughts were conflicting, being the socially awkward person he was. He didn't know how best to deal with the overwhelming emotions he was feeling now, since he tended to rely on proven facts, studies, and statistics. Garcia's words had really gotten to him, being as passionate as they were, and he hated to admit that he understood what she was saying. However, he couldn't say he felt similarly. How he felt was another matter entirely, one he was understandably having a difficult time comprehending. Rossi, powerless to help, sat across from him quietly and looked out the window, fighting his own battle.

Morgan, meanwhile, had come to the conclusion that his anger was misplaced. Previously, he had assumed that this rush of fury had been towards Emily, who had come back from the dead and who had, in his eyes, made too many mistakes to be completely trusted. That would imply, though, that she made all the decisions she did readily and that she had had more leeway in the matter. This from the man that had the most trouble trusting, given, but the fact still stood that she hadn't done a great job in making sure that the bonds she had established with her team would remain once she returned. After Garcia had spoken and the team settled once more, he had kept his headphones off and instead pondered; listening to what his mind was telling him. It told him that his irritation was not directed at Emily herself, but more towards the actions she had taken. True, nobody on the team could say they agreed with what she had done, and given some time, would probably have plotted another route that Emily could have taken that would achieve the same goal. The problem was, though, and had been, that Emily hadn't been blessed with the time that the team had had more than enough of over the past eight months. As much as Morgan's mind tried to accept this, tried to forgive and forget, another part of him refused to allow it. Another part that could only see the damage inflicted, the harm caused by what she had done, whether it was in selfishness or self_less_ness, and deemed it impossible to forgive her. The rational part of him declined the idealist course of events, that this whole ordeal would just be simple and easy.

Emily knew that all too well.

Said ex-fugitive sat on her own in the bathroom, which seemed to reflect and echo all her negative thoughts and automatically dispel any positive ones, lest she actually be hopeful. Then again, it was hard to think and feel positively after a display like _that_—which was just so painfully sincere—especially when you're the recipient of it. Of course, Emily hadn't expected them to throw a "welcome home" party right off the bat, needless to say. She had done too many harmful things in the past months to allow such an abrupt appearance to be taken lightly. Still, no matter how much she had attempted to prepare herself for the inevitable reaction of her teammates, it still wasn't painless to experience the words, the telltale body language, all of which spoke of—no, _screamed _of—confusion and undoubtedly distrust. Confusion that she had brought about single handedly by her choices not to let her team in on the full story with Doyle, which in turn had brought about a whole other string of events that led up to now, none of which were pleasant.

* * *

Though it seemed to take forever and a day, the plane did finally touch the ground once more, effectively reminding the team that there was a psycho to deal with and their personal matters could wait. The team wasted no time and exited the plane, JJ filed right behind a downtrodden Emily. As the only member of the team willing to embrace Emily so quickly, JJ was extremely unsure as to what she could possibly say to comfort her. Obviously, both women knew time would do its job in healing all wounds, but in the meantime, it would be difficult for Emily to endure alone, and even more so for JJ to watch helplessly, which was how she was beginning to feel now.

Within minutes of stepping off the plane, the team was introduced to the lead officer on the job, Officer McKenley, a slightly pudgy man with a crop of brown hair and a matching beard. He was friendly and more than happy to attend to the BAU team, which entailed getting each member of the team their own separate hotel rooms and a spacey office with whiteboard, computers and all, to work in. Maybe this hospitality stemmed from the fact that the current police team working on the case was no good at dispelling alarm in the media and in the public, but the BAU team wasn't complaining. Hotch thanked the officer and, considering it was still bright out, they set right to work.

* * *

"JJ and I consulted briefly on the plane," Hotch began, looking in the general direction of his team, each of whom were situated around a mahogany table in the middle of their new work station. Blown up and printed pictures were posted on the large whiteboard behind the Unit Chief. "She pointed out that the times of death were different for each person in a group."

"UnSub made them watch," Morgan mused, coming to the same conclusion that Hotch and JJ had on the plane.

"We have reason to believe so," Hotch replied.

"For some, the bruises and cuts had a little time to heal," JJ brought up from her seat off to the side.

"So there were breaks between beatings?" Rossi wondered aloud from his seat at the front.

"It appears that way," Hotch confirmed, cuing the onslaught of suggestions and ideas.

During the period in which various proposals popped up to explain the time in which the bruises were allowed to heal, Emily remained silent. There was an unspoken agreement that perhaps it would be for the better if she were to keep quiet, at least for now, or until it was absolutely necessary that she speak. The team wasn't exactly accustomed to having her back yet, so she might as well keep things the way they were when she wasn't there and permit the team to have the much needed time and space to come to terms with her reviving. Until she had a chance to do otherwise, she was basically just along for the ride, and left to hope that things with her team would improve sooner than later. The team as a whole was silently thankful for this. They hadn't been prepared for her to abruptly show up and then immediately accompany them on a case, as if the previous months had never occurred. Until they were at a point in which they were capable of accepting Emily's reappearance, let things come as they may. In other words, they were going with the flow.

The case proceeded as cases typically do in the beginning, feeding off of the ideas from the team until something solid made itself known. However, most proposals were being exercised and quickly dismissed when something else challenged it. With nothing to go off of, the team was rapidly running out of thoughts. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, depending on how one looked at it, a call came in and interrupted their brainstorming session.

"Six more bodies found in Brooklyn," Hotch announced grimly. With that, the team was off and running to inspect the newly dead without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**GRRRRAAAAAHHHH, I hate how they paid very little attention to Prentiss in the new episode! It was a good episode, though. I just really hope Reid doesn't become a psychotic killer in the next season. Also, this chapter focuses a little more on the case and less on the emotion, since I appeared to have dwelt on that a lot in the previous chapters. Gotta stretch it all out a bit, y'know? The case will tie in with the plot line, I'm letting you know now, but once the case is finished the story will *not* be over. Okay? Keep reviewing and I'll keep writing. Lastly, I start school on Monday - I've been on spring break - so chapters may come slower. R&R!**

* * *

_"Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion." —Joseph Conrad

* * *

_

Two large black SUV's were used to transport the BAU team to the new crime scene. They divided evenly, with Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss in the first vehicle and the remainder of the team, consisting of JJ, Reid, and Morgan, situated in the other. This arrangement made by Hotch was done purposely. He, Rossi, and JJ were the ones most likely not to lash out at Emily or outwardly show any strong emotions that might bother her even more. Or, in the case of Reid, make the team members themselves become unfocused. JJ had been placed in the other car in hopes of consoling the two most agitated team members, and at the present Hotch had no way of knowing if placing JJ with his other two agents had made a difference. Nor could he be concerned with personal matters at the moment.

Once the whole team arrived, both SUV's and all, the sun was setting and the sky was beginning to darken. The precinct was back in Manhattan, making driving out to Brooklyn a bit of a hassle, but nobody had a choice. The scene was sectioned off with the regular crime scene tape, the six bodies practically submerged in the tall, uncut grasses of an abandon garden or park of some sort. Nearby stood a nervous looking teenage couple, who the team automatically assumed to be the witnesses, seeing as how they were hugging each other, looking _very _out of place.

Hotch surveyed the scene before turning to address the team. "JJ, Morgan, talk to the witnesses. See what you can get out of them. The rest of you, with me," he announced, subconsciously being careful not to directly say Prentiss' name lest he disturb Reid or possibly Rossi, ducking under the bright yellow tape and waving his badge. The team followed suit with the exception of JJ and Morgan, who shared a cautious glance before walking over to the trembling teenage couple, who were standing off to the side looking as if they had both just seen a ghost, and what an appropriate analogy.

* * *

"What happened?" JJ started off, her voice soft and empathetic yet commanding.

"We din't do nuttin' wrong," the boy protested instantly in a thick Brooklyn accent.

"We weren't blaming you," Morgan responded. It wasn't the first time that a conversation with a witness started off this way.

When the girl seemed too shaken to say anything, the boy spoke up again. "Me and my goil here, Janie, we was lookin' for some private time, y'know? And we's find this…" he nodded in the direction of the bodies.

The girl, dark hair framing her face in thick locks, interrupted when he trailed off. "We called 'ya right away," she said, her voice unsurprisingly shaky.

"Was there anyone here already?" Morgan inquired. The boy merely shook his head.

JJ and Morgan shared another look that said _that's all we're going to get out of them._ In unspoken agreement, they thanked the two teenagers for what little information they could provide and silently went to join the rest of the team, where Reid was crouching, carefully examining the bodies for himself while a detective rattled off the identities to Hotch.

* * *

"Here we've got Laura Hyne, Heidi Connor, Eliza Bart, Philip Keenly, Zachary Green, and Samuel Sutton. All between the ages of thirty-two and thirty-three."

"The age range is increasing," Morgan noted, looking down at Reid who was milling about the six bodies, resting in the same positions the others were found in. Their faces were covered in bruises and cuts to fit the M.O. Upon closer inspection some had broken bones that had been fixed in an arrangement to look normal and unharmed at first glance. Their clothes were ripped, revealing even more marred flesh. The sight was grotesque and sickening and everyone at the scene, no matter what their occupation, was glad that they hadn't been there to watch someone have these injuries inflicted upon them.

"The women show signs of sexual trauma," Reid reported, noticing the various patches of red near their more private areas. He gingerly held Zachary's left wrist in his own gloved hands, gently turning it over. "Signs of physical restraint and defensive wounds. By the older age group, I'd say our UnSub is escalating."

"Did that happen with the other victims, too?" Rossi asked. JJ nodded in confirmation.

"If it's the same killer, which I can safely say it is, then there should be traces of rust, too," JJ added, a fact that she and Hotch had gone over on the plane.

As Reid straightened up to join the team, Rossi continued. "So, they're being to chained to some kind of rusted metal?"

"Steel tends to be the fastest rusting metal, which is what pipes are typically made out of," Reid said.

"Pipes suggest that they're being chained in a basement of some sort," Morgan concluded. "How many places in New York have basements?"

"Too many to narrow down," Hotch replied.

"Up 'till now the bodies were found in Manhattan," JJ pointed out.

"Manhattan's an island, how'd he manage to transport six bodies over the boroughs without suspicion?" Rossi wondered aloud.

"What if he lives in Brooklyn and he's just driving out to Manhattan to do his dirty work?" Emily suggested. At the sound of her voice Reid visibly tensed and Rossi's tone became somewhat clipped.

"That would mean that this was a slip up," Rossi forced, gesturing to the area where the bodies lay, lined up.

Morgan shook his head. "How does he live in Brooklyn, kill in Manhattan, have access to chloroform…" He shook his head again. "There are too many questions!" he shouted exasperatedly, worn out by his emotions and the overwhelming barrage of questions without viable answers. JJ gently draped an arm over his shoulders as he held his head in his hands and Hotch took this as the signal to get back to Manhattan before it was dark.

"Let's drive back and work on this more in the morning," he proclaimed, glancing once over his team before heading to his designated SUV, tailed by Rossi and Emily. Reid, head bent and hands stuffed in his pockets, trailed after JJ and Morgan, the trio headed in the direction of their own SUV.

* * *

Once Hotch, Rossi, and Emily reached their car, Emily made her preference to sit in the backseat known and did so before either of the two men could say anything. Neither of them complained, though, as they seated themselves in the front and started their way back to Manhattan in silence. It stayed that way for a while, with Hotch focusing on the road, Rossi somewhere between awareness and slumber, leaning towards slumber, and Emily looking dejectedly out the window as the roads and the bridge blurred past. It was most definitely going to be a while before she was even remotely forgiven. In perspective, she didn't blame any of them for their behavior towards her and she could only imagine how they felt inwardly, but she desperately wished, along with the rest of the team, that it didn't have to be this way. She never thought she'd feel so lonely surrounded by the people she could best describe as her family.

No amount of mental preparation could help her watch her team and observe their pain and feel nothing in response. The guilt was only heightened by the fact that she knew she had caused that hurt and could do nothing to dispel it. Just like that night, all those months ago, when Garcia left that voice mail on her phone, she felt tears begin to well in her eyes. Her breathing pattern changed as she fought to keep them from spilling over and Hotch, ever observant, looked at her in the rear view mirror. He raised an eyebrow but she continued struggling to choke back sobs and keep her gaze leveled outside the window at the darkening sky.

Perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate or soothing thing to say, but Hotch wasn't exactly known for being the comforting, sensitive type. "Prentiss, do I need to take you off the case?"

Instantly she jumped at the sound of his voice breaking the hush. Rossi slept on, so she inconspicuously sniffed, took a deep breath to steady her voice, and subtly turned to look at him in the corner of her eye. "No. No, I'm alright."

"This was a hard blow to the team," Hotch went on, paying no attention to her reaction, since he didn't honestly care to. His voice remained steady, despite the heavy feeling behind it.

"I know," she sniffled again, a little more audibly, forcefully rubbing her eyes and wiping away the hints of tears. If Hotch noticed, though, he didn't show it.

A few beats of quiet passed in the car, even though both of them could feel that the dreaded conversation was far from over. There was too much left unsaid, mostly on Emily's part, but perhaps a bit on Hotch's as well. Emily was outright sniffling now, failing at her attempts to stifle her body's show of emotion. Hotch, feeling uncomfortable, did his best not to say anything as they continued to drive.

Eventually, after a few minutes passed allowing both of them to gather their thoughts, Emily spoke, her voice only cracking in the slightest. "If I learned anything during my time away, Hotch…" she paused, taking a deep breath to steady her voice, "it's that there are things much, _much_ worse than death." Ulterior and deeper meaning dripped from every word in that single sentence alone, and with that she rested her head against the cool glass of the car window and let her eyes slide shut, effectively ending the tense discussion.

It was at that very moment in the soundless car, on their way back to Manhattan, that Hotch began to feel the first inkling of concern for her. However, he didn't act on it or pursue the touchy topic. Instead he opted for focusing on his driving more so than he ever remembered doing in the past eight months, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and Emily escaped into a light and troubled sleep in the backseat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the wait, I've been having computer problems lately, but all's back to normal (for now). Other than that, I can't say I have any notes, except prepare yourself: this chapter is extremely slow going. I didn't mean for it to be that way, but my goal is 1,000+ words per chapter, not 2,000, so I had to cut it short. I know it sucks, and I'm really sorry, but there will be more discussion next chapter. I guess you could say this is a filler chapter. Please forgive me and keep reading, thank you for all your reviews so far and I sincerely hope they will not stop!**

* * *

_"They would not find me changed from him they knew- Only more sure of all I thought was true ." -Robert Frost_

* * *

It was a while before they reached the hotel, but the ride was considerably peaceful. With Hotch, Rossi, and Emily, Hotch was the only one awake, focusing intensely on his driving, even though he didn't necessarily need to. JJ, Reid, and Morgan, for the first half of the ride, had sat in silence, Reid twiddling his thumbs and Morgan, thankfully, at the wheel and taking his frustrations out by squeezing the leather or pushing harder than needed on the brakes whenever a red light popped up. JJ, who was sitting in the passenger seat, occasionally gave him a look over, making sure he wasn't about to careen their car into the Hudson River. Thankfully, no such incident occurred during the ride and they all made it out in one piece, and dry.

Halfway through, though, JJ began to feel tense. The two of them weren't exactly the most pleasant of company at the moment, and though she desperately clawed to find something appropriate to say, she could find nothing. Her own lack of speech frustrated her, and she pretended to look jadedly out the window in order to come up with something to say while not being scrutinized by Morgan's weary expression, or Reid's confused and disappointed one. At some point, she came to the overwhelmingly frustrating conclusion that there was a limitation and that words weren't enough to convey the feeling that was hanging thickly in the air, the emotion they all shared but couldn't confess or vocalize. Instead, they let the hush lie, but unlike the other car, none of them fell asleep to escape or even hinted at it.

When the car jerked to a stop, finally, it was dark and the night was chilly. It didn't help that there was now a small drizzle coming down, quickly picking up speed. When they stopped and Morgan saw the small droplets of rain running down the window to his left, he sighed, letting his back hit his seat. At this Reid finally looked up from his lap for the first time in the whole ride, took in Morgan's palpable exasperation and JJ's subtle but still-there discomfort. A few minutes later and there was no sight of the other SUV, which had been considerably behind after getting caught in a bout of traffic due to a late rush hour. The three sat there in the car, the engine still roaring in order to keep the heat going, feeling tired and defeated by the day's emotionally tolling events.

Eventually, Reid managed to murmur something, his gaze fixed on his lap once more. Morgan glanced up into the rear view mirror to examine the younger man in the back, his face now free of emotion. "What was that?" The sound of his voice, though soft, seemed to pierce the tension and the trance was momentarily released, leaving all three of them thinking somewhat rationally once more, grateful for the distraction.

"We should probably get out," Reid reiterated himself more clearly this time, clearing his throat quietly shortly after. Morgan studied him for a moment more before turning away and moving to unlock his car door. His travel companions followed suit, their movement lethargic and looking as if they had been drugged. Once Morgan managed to open his own door and a cold blast of the New York air hit them, they were surely awake once more.

They stepped up to the hotel, clustered together, taking in its small outward appearance. They had all been promised decent rooms, though, so they dispelled any doubts and headed in. The only person around was the regular guy behind the desk, who seemed to be friendly but awfully tired. The trio took the elevator up to their room after gathering their card keys, a very slow elevator at that, and JJ finally took out her cell phone to acquaint herself with the time while the elevator slowly lugged past the lower floors.

"10:48," she read aloud, flipping her phone shut and slipping it back into place.

"We would have gotten here sooner if we'd taken the subway," Reid pointed out gently, his voice still betraying his temporarily blanketed emotions. Knowing he was incapable of fully hiding what he was feeling, he didn't bother; trusting that his team would understand without him having to explain and go into detail he wasn't in the mood to discuss and was incapable of translating into words to properly express himself.

"That place is dirty," Morgan stated evenly, containing his anger and addressing that impenetrable mental block preventing him from opening up and forgiving Emily. The same block that the whole team shared, Hotch and even JJ included, in spite of the fact that the ladder held the smallest grudge of all; that she hadn't told anyone in the first place and gotten herself into this situation. Besides, she was so sure they'd come around… but when, and before their attitudes had a lasting effect, she couldn't judge. She understood that it couldn't be helped and that there was nothing she could do, try as she might, except observe and hope for the best.

"I think I prefer the SUVs too, Spence," JJ told him as their elevator reached their floor, dinging on cue to announce their arrival.

The three of them heard the other SUV pull up outside and in response they were unintentionally quieted once more, Reid unfocused on the key card in his hand until JJ gingerly took it from him and opened his room for him, and then proceeded to do the same for a drained Morgan who couldn't focus and herself.

* * *

Hotch sat there for a moment, debating with himself on how to go about waking up his two agents. Apparently, Emily had unconsciously solved that for him, though not in a way he would have preferred. It took a few minutes, but Hotch heard her, whispering at first, and realized with the tiniest of sinking feelings that she must have been doing that for the whole ride and it had completely and utterly evaded his notice.

"No… _no,_ Lauren Reynolds is dead… no…" Her whispers were escalating into panicked, though still hushed, cries, and turning into frenzied shouts. Hotch watched helplessly as one of her hands found a spot just above her left breast, where Hotch had heard of but had never seen the four leaf clover, painfully and agonizingly branded onto her skin by none other than Doyle as one of the few lasting reminders. It was a fight to remain impassive as her other hand roamed to her abdomen, clutching it the same way she had when she had first been stabbed. Soon she was shouting—more along the lines of screaming, actually—easily waking up Rossi, whose snores were like a bunny's hops in volume compared to Emily's panic attack. When he startled awake, he turned his gaze to the backseat where Hotch was looking, slowly taking in the scene. It was troubling to see her inner turmoil manifest itself through her dreams and not at all willingly, but the two stayed silent, hoping that she would awake sooner than later.

Suddenly she jolted forward, gasping, panting, and unaware that she was currently in an SUV in New York with two of her senior teammates staring at her. Hotch's features twitched in deeply camouflaged concern, while Rossi gripped the head of his seat tightly, his own face tight in order to keep from displaying any unwelcome feeling. Both of them shared the telltale look of having aged twenty years in a much shorter span, a look that would evidently become familiar sooner than later.

When she caught her breath she glanced up at them and instantly became secretive and guarded once she caught their gazes. When their eyes met, Hotch turned away and moved to open the door as if briefly ashamed of having watched her, and when her eyes met with Rossi's something flickered in them, but only for a moment before he too unlocked his door with no words exchanged. She tucked her stray hair behind her ear and opened the back door, only to join them in the frosty night air, hoping to reach her room as soon as possible without any complications.

She wasn't so lucky.


	6. Chapter 6

**To getting my homework done early! Thanks to feedback from **susannah2000**, although I honestly have no clue if she's even still reading this story. Ah well, I'm likin' it! Sorry I'm a sucky writer, susannah, but you're a great reader 3 Let me know if I'm still getting the wrong point across. Anyhow, your reviews are my drug.**

* * *

"_A personal offense is like a scratch on a phonograph record. I couldn't move my thoughts beyond my pain. It kept repeating, as if I were stuck within its grooves." –Laurel Lee_

* * *

Emily trailed behind sluggishly as Hotch and Rossi made their way up to their rooms in record time. As soon as their doors closed, all of them having been given rooms on the same floor, she stood alone in the hallway. The giant window to her right was half closed with the silk curtains pulled to the side to allow anyone curious enough a peek at the enveloping night sky. A chilly wind blew in from outside, causing goose bumps to run along the pale skin of Emily's arms as she remained motionless.

To her surprise, she found herself crumpling unceremoniously to her knees. In fact, she didn't even recall when her legs gave out on her or when the strength needed to hold a standing position had ebbed, but it didn't matter. Something had been altered in her with the stillness, and it was choosing to let itself loose now. Not exactly a preferred location, but it wasn't like she could help it. After all, the location didn't matter anymore anyway. No matter where she went, she was going to feel the same way. Her feelings weren't going to change. She didn't have the willpower to get up, though, that was for sure. Despite the screaming discomfort in her legs, she stayed on the rough carpet that covered the hallway. Occasional winds blew in, but when they did they were bitingly cold to Emily's exposed skin. It didn't bother her; it anchored her to the real world, pulled her away from a world of negativity and depression. One that was merging with the real world, whatever that was now, and was quickly taking over.

"Emily?" A choked voice called out to her from somewhere on her left. Instinctively she lifted her head, only to see a pajama clad Reid, amusingly with a night cap covering his scruffy brown hair, peering around his door at her huddled form. He didn't sound concerned, more along the lines of surprised and confused. Then again, that's what the whole day seemed to involve feeling for him, so it wasn't exactly unexpected.

She simply took a deep breath in response, willing the sobs in her chest to go away. Reid furrowed his brow slightly, unsure of what to say. What she must be feeling had never occurred to him, and between Morgan and Garcia's harsh words and his, Hotch's, and Rossi's own neglect, he hadn't exactly thought of her. Thinking about it now, he guessed that he had simply assumed that she would remain as patient as ever, like he always knew her to be. He had never known Emily Prentiss to break, or feel anything else. Even realizing all of this he didn't feel like he was being insensitive, just more confused, if that was possible. Somewhere in him, he longed to reach out and hug her, forgive her, have a very good friend come back to him; be whole again and not have to experience a whole other whirlwind of a very different kind of pain. Another tiny but strong part of him wouldn't allow this.

"Reid," she said finally as soon as she could, but her voice was cracking.

"I…" he stumbled, having difficulty finding suitable words to explain himself, but finding that this wasn't possible. Luckily Emily was patient from her eight months away. He left the safety and solitude of his hotel room to enter the hallway, standing a good few feet in front of her as another gust of wind picked her hair up and blew it to the side.

They stayed this way for a few minutes. Emily was quite frankly surprised that Reid was reluctant to leave. Reid was surprised by the fact that he still felt drawn to her, like a lost puppy to its family, whoever that may be. Truthfully, that seemed to be a very fitting analogy. Yet that tiny, tiny, insignificant part of him said otherwise, and it frustrated his uncertain genius mind beyond belief.

"Are you okay?" It was a stupid thing to say, considering there was absolutely no real worry behind it and it wasn't meant to fool her into thinking so. He wasn't sure what emotion was responsible for his words. What emotion was powering his actions at all at the moment.

Emily recognized desperation, however. She also felt obligated to tell him the raw truth, no matter what the effect. "No."

Just like Hotch had, Reid felt that small inkling of concern finally reach him. Being who he was, though, he was still hesitant and lost in the realm of vague emotion.

"I want to forgive you," he confessed, although he didn't see even a flicker of relief cross her face. She remained impassive, forcing herself to push away the hope, just like she had been for the past eight months. "I really do…" he trailed off.

"But you can't," she supplied shortly for him, finally getting to her feet, if unsteadily, renewed with something solid for once, even if it wasn't what she really, really wished for. There was a snowball's chance in hell it would be.

He shook his head, watching as she walked past him and nearly fell into her door while opening it. After a moment she managed to swipe the key card being clutched in her shaky hand and as she walked in the door frame, he softly spoke to her back. "I'm sorry."

She looked over her shoulder at him. There was sincerity in face, but what hurt her was that he was incapable of forgiving her. It wasn't his fault, but it was the aspect that stung the most. She didn't blame him, in fact, she completely expected similar feelings from the whole team no matter how they ended up portraying them, like Morgan was. The truth was she was alone, whether anyone in the team desired that or not. From her years in profiling she was sure that nobody wished that kind of cruelty on her, purposeful loneliness, meant for her to suffer, but it was just going to happen that way and there was nothing any of them could do. Emotions were a terribly fickle and controlling thing. Emily hated herself for all of this. She hated the confusion she caused them, the actions they couldn't help, the path they were being forced to wander in the dark, each alone, just like her. Pulled into something they didn't deserve to be included in, even if her direction was more damaging than any of theirs. Honestly, she had already reached her destination, and deep down she knew that. The tightening in her chest, the feeling like all her limbs were heavy and everything was dull. _Depression._

They couldn't forgive her. To hear it admitted indirectly hurt worse than a stake to the stomach, or a burn to the chest.

She let the door close behind her as her head whipped around to face forward, tears leaking freely out of her eyes now, for the second time that day. If she could have resisted, fought back, she would, but she was human. Hadn't she told Hotch that one day? To let her be human?

God, how she hated herself now.

* * *

Reid, with no other option and no reason to delay, hurried back in his room and shut the door, deep in consideration. At least he could be sure of one thing; that he was in unfamiliar territory that he wasn't about to discover or properly explore any time soon. He wasn't prepared yet, and with this somehow reassuring knowledge in mind, he was able to curl up in bed and sleep. There was nothing left for him to figure out or ponder, what he did best, and as long as he knew this, it was good enough for him.

* * *

Emily, however, couldn't even close her eyes while standing. Sobs were escaping her freely now and she found herself suddenly shocked by the cold tiles of the bathroom floor as she cried, in spite of the fact that she didn't remember making her way to the tiny room, tears leaking into her hair and making the cold of the floor even chillier. Nobody was going to come, and she knew this for sure. Unlike the previous times when she had collapsed in a hotel room of some sort during the eight months, this time she was armed with a certainty that nobody was about to open that door, pick her up, and hug her tightly. This wasn't reassuring, it was just a confirmation. She had been able to hold onto the hope that someone would, every time she found herself in this vulnerable position, able to clutch to the daydream, the distant and slim possibility. Now there was a guarantee it wasn't going to happen. Both her and Reid knew that he had just confirmed this.

But both of them felt obligated to tell the truth.

And so, that night was one of the many where she cried herself to sleep in the oblivion that was a deep, scarring depression. This time, it was somehow worse. It would only get worse before it got better, though. This was one of the many things she now knew.

* * *

**Sorry, their conversation is much more brief than I expected it to be. It's the result of my ramblings. Sorry—tough emotion, not easy to write. It's not like the feelings in your chest just spell it out for you, y'know? You experience, mix and match, **_**learn. **_**It is a very difficult to acquire skill to be able to voice… feelings. So please, forgive me.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Has anyone ever seen "Leverage"? It's a great show, I _love _Parker! Also, I wanted to make something totally clear: in my previous chapter I worded my AN badly and this was kindly pointed out to me. I didn't mean to imply that anyone has called me a sucky writer, in fact, I've received no negative reviews relevant to this story at all, and I hope it stays that way. I consider myself to be an amateur at best writer. Nobody's supported me on that statement yet, but I don't tend to look fondly on myself. Once again, you're all amazing people, and the action will start to pick up in the next two chapters I think. Depends on where my ramblings take me. This is another chapter that could be considered filler, but I felt as if Reid wasn't going to easily forget that conversation, and Emily needed to fully come to terms with the fact that she is depressed, and has been. Shorter chapter here, by the way. **

**On another note, the previous chapter must have been seriously crappy. Sorry about that, I hope this one is better. Anyways, R&R!**

* * *

_"You just have to have the guidance to lead you in the direction until you can do it yourself." -Tina Yothers_

* * *

The next morning, or, rather, the very early morning, found one Emily Prentiss awaking from a mild nightmare, though thankfully not as severe as it had been in the car the previous day. Nonetheless she was panting when she awoke, unsure of the contents in her dream that had resulted in such a panic. The only thing she remembered was the feeling of intense fright itself, not what imagery had triggered it.

Her eyes still felt tired and heavy, even as she caught her breath and the cold of the tiles jolted the rest of her senses. When she pushed herself up from her cramped position, curled up on the tiles, her body ached, but only briefly. She managed to push herself up into a standing position, but as soon as she did, she caught sight of herself in the large mirror. Looking back at her was a defeated woman with red eyes and tear marks staining her pallor face. Her raven hair looked knotted where she had been crying into it. In general, she wasn't looking too great; her appearance reflected her feelings, the last thing she wanted to put on display for her team.

She splashed some cool water in her face to relieve the looming headache as a result of crying, to wipe away the tear stains, and to reduce the redness in her eyes. Satisfied for now, she looked at herself in the mirror once more before exiting the tiny bathroom that had made for a not so comfortable place for sleeping. Two small windows next to the single bed revealed that the morning was still gray and damp, not yet full. The smell of rain wafted in through one of the open ones, the pale green curtains gently swaying with the light wind against the floral cream of the wallpaper.

The mix of the cool breeze and the chilly tap water forced her to remain aware for now, but she still felt the tug of weariness in her limbs and the numbing fog in her head. She felt terrible, to say the least. To her, there was no motivation to have even gotten up off that floor had it not been for the work she had found herself becoming entirely dedicated to over the years. The job that had secured her the best friends, and family, she ever remembered having. Just because they weren't blood, it didn't mean they weren't the closest thing resembling a family, dysfunctional as it was, that she had ever come in contact with. It was a heart clenching loneliness that stayed with her in the wake of her team, friends, and family abandoning her. Perhaps "abandon" was too harsh a word to describe the forces keeping them all distanced from her, but she didn't know how better to phrase it. Besides, that's how she felt, aside from depressed.

Minutes later, after having stood in the same position looking out into the beginnings of the morning, she stumbled over to the bed that was still made in preparation for a guest. It welcomed her and broke her fall when she collapsed on top of it, feeling too overwhelmed to keep herself standing. Stray tears leaking out from under her closed eyelids, she once more fell into a light, compelled sleep. Part of her, a very potent part, strongly desired to stay that way for a very, very long time, in the realm of darkness and solitude, and she only wished she could fulfill it.

* * *

About roughly two hours later, though she couldn't possibly hope to have kept proper track of the time, she was coaxed into an aware state by a light, by the sound of it slightly nervous, tapping. As she slowly regained her senses she pinpointed the noise to be coming from the door, turning the soft rapping into an anxious, possibly reluctant she assumed, knocking. Still feeling uninspired to do much but sleep, she pushed herself up and out of the bed. She noticed that everything seemed just a shade duller, or maybe it was just her.

She made her way to the light brown door, looking through the peephole. Automatically she eliminated the possibility of her visitor being Hotch, Rossi, or Morgan; their knocks would be rougher, and come in periodic bursts of agitation and impatience. Even though it was an unspoken rule to avoid profiling each other, the accusation just came to her naturally. With the three men eliminated she cautiously peered out and took in the lanky form of Reid, fully dressed and looking like he wasn't sure where he wanted to be. Not with the others, he looked like he was acting independently right now, but certainly not with her. _Who in their right mind wants to be with me, anyway? _she thought grimly.

However, it was still Reid and he sparked a warmer feeling of reception in her than some of the other teammates might have, so she opened the door for him, curious as to what he would be at her door for. His fist, hanging in midair ready to knock again, stilled and he lowered it to his side as he flicked his gaze over her frame for a moment, but not long enough to take in her pale, somewhat sickly looking complexion. It occurred to her that he was likely just assigned with the task of getting her ready to go. She felt bad for him, having been the unlucky one being forcibly volunteered to interact with her, so she instantly spoke before he could in order to relieve himself of the duty.

"Sorry, am I late? I'm ready to go." She moved to walk around him but he remained in the doorway, so she hesitated and took a step back.

"N…no, you're fine," he insisted, the floor appearing very fascinating to him all of a sudden. "I just wanted to be the one to wake you up," he confessed reluctantly.

This caught her off guard—maybe their chat last night, however short, had made a difference. She refused to let her spirits rise, though, because his tone still betrayed his incapability of being as fully accepting as either of them might have liked.

Before she could respond, he piped up, leveling his gaze but in the opposite direction. "Confucius once said, 'Do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire.' " She picked up on the barest hint of a smile in his tone, even though he wasn't facing her. The message came across clearly to her, though; he was sincerely, utterly, whole heartedly sorry that things had to be this way. Reid was not known for his outstanding ability in direct speech. This was the best that Emily could hope for, but despite his admittance and apology, she still felt lonely and unwholesome. The wound inflicted was still yet to heal, and she was most definitely still in a condition of depression. Even so, she was extremely grateful for his actions - even if he was still somewhat undecided and doubtful - more so than she would be able to properly convey to him.

Instead, she put on a fake smile to mask the feelings that were eating her up internally. "Thank you," she breathed, fighting her body's desperate plea to return to the safe solitary confinement that was her hotel room and stay there for the rest of her life, unable to bother her team or cause even more emotional distress.

By some miracle she was able to push herself forward to stand next to Reid, who was still incapable of looking at her, but he felt that he had taken a step in the right direction. "We're early," he informed her, but they made for the SUVs in the parking lot downstairs anyway. Even if he had been able to look at her, she wouldn't be capable of meeting his eyes. Her own were glued to her feet that somehow kept moving with an energy that she lacked.


	8. Chapter 8

**GRR, I missed the first ten minutes of Wednesday's episode because my dad just _had _to get in an All in the Family episode. And the first ten minutes of last night's Bones, too! Oh, and, supposedly the season finale is centered around Morgan. As far as I'm concerned, that is NOT OKAY. I mean, really? REALLY? Anyhow, I'm finished ranting for now. I will be away this weekend and Monday for Passover, so don't expect any updates for the next few days, so sorry. And the last chapter got a whopping three reviews which, for those that reviewed, I'm extremely grateful for. Strangely enough this is my most popular story, but I digress. Maybe it was because the site was acting screwy when I posted chapter 7? Either way, please R&R!**

* * *

_"A lot of people don't realize that depression is an illness. I don't wish it on anyone, but if they would know how it feels, I swear they would think twice before they just shrug it." -Jonathan Davis_

* * *

"What do we have?" Hotch eyed his team, positioned informally around the mahogany table. The board behind them was yet again filled, but this time with newer pictures, printed only the previous night.

So far, the day wasn't going as badly as the previous one had. There was less tension between Reid and Emily, Morgan hadn't had such a hard time refraining from lashing out at her, Garcia had kept her lips tight in case she said something she'd later regret, Rossi was as polite as he might have been towards a normal co-worker, Hotch was remaining impassive and professional, and JJ was shooting her supportive glances at every chance. Emily was thankful for their efforts, even if they didn't make a drastic difference, or even a minuscule one. She was appreciative of their attempts, no doubt, but she honestly didn't have the heart to inform them that she was still going down a dark road. It was just another problem that her team had no reason or obligation to bother with. Even if they suddenly sprung up with cake, balloons and hugs galore, she would still be in her current position. She questioned herself on why she constantly continued to hide things from them, and then she'd tell herself it was the depression talking, and not her rational, logical side. But then she'd wonder which side was the depression, and which side was herself. She wasn't quite sure anymore.

Rossi, who was flipping through the case file, murmured, effectively interrupting her intimate thought process, "The times he's keeping them aren't consistent."

"He's just keeping them for as long as they'll last," Morgan stated.

"It's surprising because it must take a great amount of physical exertion to inflict this kind of damage," Reid remarked, gesturing with his thin hand to one of the closest photos, that of Heidi Connor's beaten body. "Aside from the fact that the UnSub must be sustaining injury as well in the process."

"Enough to send him to the hospital?" Morgan inquired.

"Possibly, depending on how strongly his victims fought back. By the defensive wounds, I'd say he's made a visit at least once."

"They're being restrained and drugged; they must be fighting back while he's beating them," Rossi pointed out.

"He wants them to feel everything," Hotch commented, "so that the others can watch."

Morgan leaned forward, none too gently pushing the button on the speaker phone to dial Garcia, who picked up within moments. Her voice was still aloof and playful, the cheery Garcia they had always known, but there was something missing from it. A vigor, perhaps, an energy missing from all the energies of her team that pieced her together. It, whatever it was, could not be properly placed.

"How can I help you?" she asked lightly, somewhere across the country swirling her chair to position her agile fingers above the clunky keyboard.

"Look for any male that's been to the hospital three times in the previous four weeks for minor injuries," Hotch instructed. A flurry of rapid typing sounds were the only noises coming from the device sitting in the middle of the table for a few fleeting moments.

"That's a total of thirty nine."

"Men that live in Brooklyn," JJ prompted.

"Twenty seven."

"That have a basement?" Reid supplied, stealing a brief glance up from the case file that had his genius mind temporarily occupied. Few things outside of cases could accomplish this feat, and he was loath to admit that emotions were also one of the factors that had the ability to cloud his judgment and misdirect his thoughts. That's why he was currently doing everything in his power not to look Emily's way, despite the temptation.

"Twenty five."

Out of suggestions for possibly narrowing down the search, the team collectively leaned back in their seats with the exception of Hotch, who was currently standing but shared in their nagging frustration, as was the case with every case they handled. It was rare when the case was extremely simple, only because the local police force was able to track their bad guy down before the BAU was called in. It was only when the police force managed to miss a vital clue that was blatantly obvious to the BAU but not to them that their team managed to get away with little to no irritation while working the profile.

"He makes the others watch… possibly acting out an event?" Rossi suggested, he too looking up from the manila folder and it's disturbing contents.

"It would have to have been pretty traumatic to have triggered such violent attacks like these," Reid mused. "I think he's getting revenge."

"Check any reports of domestic violence where a young boy was involved in the past twenty years," Hotch demanded gently, keeping his gaze focused on the miniature machine.

While Garcia worked on further thinning the search query until they could identify their UnSub, JJ asked, "What about the rapes?"

Before anyone could supply her with an answer, Garcia automatically read her results. "We've got one match; a Louis Macoy. He lived with his mother and father, Elise and Quinn Macoy, in Brooklyn. Poor nugget—he was bullied at school a lot and his parents didn't pay much attention. One day a pair of siblings were walking down the street, heard screaming, and called 911. The case was dismissed as mild domestic violence and the parents were given a warning. Turns out they were… um," here she paused and the discomfort lacing her tone was palpable. "Acting… out… in the bedroom," she offered, not wanting to delve any deeper than that and knowing full well the message got across. "Louis saw it, but the detail was shrugged off."

"So, he thought it to be a real act, and is trying to enact revenge on people who trust one another by forcing them to watch while the other crumbled," Rossi concluded. Nobody argued.

"This is our guy then," Morgan confirmed, allowing his eyes to sweep casually over the team, only to feel his chest clench when it landed on Emily for that fleeting second. Aside from that, he felt a subtle shock when he acknowledged that she wasn't even looking up. The case file was wide open in front of her, but she was peering down, her eyes unfocused, her shoulders slumped, and her hands hidden in her lap. Had he—or any of them, really—paid more attention or analyzed her behavior further, her body language would have told the tale she was now working to keep hidden. It was unfortunate that time was of the essence here, and these valuable minutes could not be spent on profiling a team member that had just come back from the dead.

* * *

She was currently exercising that thought, that she wasn't telling the team of her condition. Truth be told, she had seen a therapist over the previous eight months, and had indeed been diagnosed with a mild depression, and had been informed that no medication was necessary to ail it. Now, however, it was on a whole other level of severity, to the point where she just felt defeated and lacking motivation. Anyhow, she was keeping yet another secret from her team. How many times could she do this before they just didn't let her back? Okay, so perhaps they weren't given a say in the matter this time around, but if they really felt strongly about it they had every right to protest against her presence once they returned back to Quantico. Somewhere, she desperately hoped they wouldn't, but she had no definite way to tell and no reasoning as to why they shouldn't. After years of being profilers, each and every one of them had learned to carefully guard his or her emotions or visible thoughts, in case they weren't the type to be displayed. It was ill-fated for her that compartmentalizing wasn't efficient enough a solution anymore, that it would only go so far. She processed the thought that possibly, keeping her status private was somehow dissimilar to the last time she had done so.

That time there had been catastrophic outcomes, and dangerous risks and situations involved all around. There had most definitely been lives, not just her own, on the line while tracking Doyle, and she had done her best to protect each and every one of them, no matter how much pain was included. Her own, she imagined, had been the majority of it after all. Not only the emotional pain that her teammates had suffered during her absence and her initial declaration of death, and that she had honestly shared in on another degree of brutality, but the physical pain. Being stabbed, beaten, burnt, none of it was exactly considered a walk in the park. Angry scars still marred the flesh on her abdomen, and still stung and throbbed, sometimes incapacitated her if strained too much. The burn was another matter. It had to be treated for a while with aloes, but it served as a lasting reminder of the mistakes she made and the events she would have given anything to alter. How she hadn't been mentally traumatized was beyond her, but she wasn't about to complain. It was a small favor, and at this point, she was taking what she could get.

She concluded that it was safe to keep this secret. As long as it didn't modify her job performance negatively in any sense, it should be alright. Her own depression didn't concern the team as far as she knew, and she didn't want it to. There was no point, after all. She was convinced that they wouldn't give a damn anyhow. Besides that, it didn't put anybody's life on the line, not even her own. It was just a dark path that she was wandering alone for an indefinite amount of time. It was her decision to suffer alone or share, and she was choosing to endure it privately. In other words, keep things the way they had been for the last eight months.

She was wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys, sorry for the long wait! I did write a oneshot, A Thousand Cranes, that I do hope you'll read. It's H/P, with Emily whumpage _. I can't help myself. Speaking of which, there will be Emily whump starting from here for a little while; brace yourselves. Also, a longer chapter to make up for my absence. Warning: This could very well be my worst chapter yet. R&R!**

* * *

"_If people can't deal with their problems, they numb themselves a little bit.__" –Kevin Nealon _

* * *

"Are you alright?"

Emily glanced up when his voice pierced the air that would otherwise be relatively quiet. Her expression remained impassive as she ran over his tone in her mind, noting the strict professional mask he always had painted on. She dismissed his inquiry as a polite way of letting her know that he didn't trust her. That was the only explanation that made sense in her frazzled mind.

Hotch, on the other hand, was making a great effort to remain official and not allow the blossoming concern in his chest to appear outwardly. Somehow his own compassionate worry seemed inappropriate and unwelcome at the moment, likely due to the fact that they were standing outside a stranger's house waiting for the rest of their team to join them. That certainly dampened the possibilities of a friendly mood quite a bit, taking into account that the person that dwelled in the house was liable to be a serial killer.

"Fine," she responded after a few moments, her voice clipped and forced in order to disguise the underlying hurt. The hesitation had only been due to the effort it took to conceal the large amount of sadness.

He didn't fail to notice this outward attitude and, although he could go on all day considering what went on in her mind, he decided it best to leave the matter untouched for now. Instead, to signal the end of their brief exchange, his dark eyes became unfocused as he tilted his head away from her and towards the top of the house.

The best means to describe the feeling he received from just glancing at the house standing casually in front of them was bizarre. The structure and the area surrounding itself was anything but; painted in light, neutral pastels, with the windows either darkened or the curtains pulled tight. A classic country house, perhaps on a smaller scale considering it was still in New York, but somehow he still felt strange just standing within feet of the entrance. It seemed conceivable that this sense might have been from the apparent deficiency of neighbors, not only within walking distance but for miles around. The drive here had been solitary outside of the FBI-issued SUVs, but the road had been paved.

Their suspect had been easy enough to pinpoint after a while. Over the past three days, the team had made wonderful progress. A control freak with a set mind that couldn't be swayed by anything, trying to make others feel how he did, since nobody paid him any attention years ago. The house standing in front of them indeed belonged to a Louis Macoy, age twenty six. He didn't have any known relationships, which fit the profile; he avoided close relationships, or any relationships, at all costs since he was utterly convinced that anyone would eventually turn on someone close to them.

They didn't need to read it on a medical examiner's report, but all of his victims showed traces of an adhesive around their mouths. The team had made an educated guess before hearing this tidbit of knowledge, that he would cover their mouths somehow to prevent them from speaking. In his eyes, his parents had betrayed not only him, but one another, and he therefore decided that his victims could share no intimate or personal relationship with anyone in any way. As for the beatings and other violent acts, that most likely stemmed from the need for power. That addiction to authority likely began with the bullying. It all fit the profile like a glove.

After a few silent minutes of Hotch analyzing and perfecting the profile in his head, he turned his head to the sound of another SUV barreling down the road behind the duo. He cast one last private glance at Emily, who evidently didn't expect him to look at her, because for just the briefest of moments she had stopped pretending and she had been displaying a characteristic he had never before witnessed coming from the woman; defeat. Just as quickly as it appeared, though, her demeanor shifted into one of a careful guardedness that could be taken as determination to catch their bad guy. That was more like her, but deep down Hotch knew she was a drastically changed person, for the worse, although the problem may be fixed yet. He also knew that, as long as she was loath to share with her inhospitable teammates, which he assumed would last for a while, the problem was only going to plummet.

He hadn't guessed that she was depressed, though. Just left out.

A few small unlucky pebbles were scattered and crunched under the monster tires of a massive vehicle, which emitted a small high pitch screech as it none too gracefully slowed to a stop next to the one already parked. Seconds later the remainder of the team exited, trained to efficiently get in and out of a car as speedily as possible to save time.

They gathered together in a loose huddle on the sidewalk outside of their UnSub's house. Everyone had bulletproof vests covering their most vulnerable body parts, save their heads and necks, and guns in their holsters.

Hotch relayed the agreed upon profile to the team so they knew what to expect, just in case. Emily feigned agitation, though leaving the matter as to why she would be shrouded in mystery to the team. To her, they wouldn't care, anyway. She had betrayed them too deeply, struck too hard. It was unforgivable, what she had done. What they must think of her.

The rest of the team thought differently in truth, though if someone informed Emily of this, she would scoff in disbelief. Hotch was dealing with his emerging distress while doing what was expected of him and maintaining the team's dynamics. Reid and Emily had reached what could be seen as a level of understanding, although whenever he accidentally met her gaze, pain flashed across his childlike eyes before he could cloak it, and Emily, being skilled in recognizing emotions and human behavior that may seem insignificant to the untrained eye, noticed it and took it to heart. JJ was as warm and welcoming as ever, the most supportive person one could hope for, but it didn't mean that she could relieve Emily of her burdens. She helped out where she could and reduced tension when possible, but it was a very temporary relief. Rossi refused to give in to overwhelming and unsophisticated emotions that were currently dominating the rest of his team's behavior towards Emily. Instead, he compelled himself to act undecided in hopes of avoiding hurting either party, which he had no way of knowing wasn't a very effective method. Communication between Emily and Garcia had since been limited, seeing as how Garcia seemed unable to properly function or think rationally whenever she so much as saw Emily's face for a fleeting second. She tended to blurt out whatever thought processed first, usually the negative ones. Morgan had surprisingly managed to dispel his outrage, his natural reaction to the news. At least, in reality he had; he still used his anger as a guise in order to cover up the scarring sentiment of deception.

Emily put this all behind her for now as best she could. Compartmentalizing was failing her, though, and in the background she had to suffer through the endless pain that couldn't be stored away to deal with later.

She shook her head as Hotch's voice ceased, dragging her back onto the sidewalk in front of a murderer's humble abode.

"Split up," Hotch finished, looking at each of his agents in turn. "Prentiss, Rossi, and Morgan, go in through the back and clear the second floor and the attic. JJ, Reid, with me, we'll secure the bottom floors." Hotch had permitted himself to voice Emily's name, and was thankful to see that in the aftermath, there was no visible reaction from any member of the team. It was progress.

The team broke off, one trio walking up the short cement pathway to the door and the other taking a lonesome path around the house to the back.

When the trio consisting of Prentiss, Rossi, and Morgan got the confirmation from Hotch, reminding them that they should split up and search individually, they entered cautiously into a dark kitchen. It was a simple and homey kitchen; upon first glance, no sane person would presume a killer ate in it.

Prentiss then took a right into a small study, Morgan a left into a large pantry, and Rossi surged forward into the living room to meet up with another team member. This left Emily by herself in the study.

* * *

In it were a desk, bookshelves, and a lounge chair. She could picture Reid sitting in the cozy looking chair, intent on speeding through another book that never stood a chance. After having assessed the room, she muttered in a monotone into her ear bud, "clear," and moved on to the next room.

Minutes passed of wandering, and Emily found herself checking out a large guest bedroom when things took a turn for the worse. It took her a while to notice that the "clear's" in her team's varying voices had stopped. Curious, she had stilled her examination of the underside of the bed and stood up straight.

"Did we find him?" she inquired, only to receive no response. Somehow, the explanation of "her team just ditched her" didn't seem adequate. On the job, they were all orderly and skilled, no longer human beings succumbing to strong emotions. If they all hated her with a passion that burned hotter than hell itself, they still wouldn't leave unless they absolutely had to. Even then, they had the means of updating her on their location. Automatically apprehension prickled her skin and struck in her chest, but she lamely reassured herself and tried again.

"Where is he?" There was still no answer, and the anxiety knotting in her chest began to swell. Something wasn't right, and not only was the evidence in the lack of her team's voices, but she felt the presence of another living thing.

The room blurred as she attempted to figure herself out and do the reasonable action, whatever that may be, but she didn't have the time. In the next instant she reacted, blindly sending out a roundhouse kick that would stun even the burliest of people. To her shock, her heel met flesh and bone and sent another force stumbling back into a dusty dresser with a thud. A wet plop accompanied it, but from what, she had no clue, nor did she have time to contemplate.

She whirled on the person, instantly knowing this was not one of her teammates. All questions relevant to her teammates were forgotten. The person groaned but quickly sprung back up to their feet, wielding a crowbar that Emily had not seen before. For one horrible moment, its rusty metal glinted in the dim light that covered the room, before descending upon her.

The world spun and all she felt was agonizing pain, sharpest in her head and thrumming throughout the rest of her body. She felt her knees collapse underneath her, her legs no longer cooperative, and her whole body slump over onto the ground. Pain was occupying every one of her senses, although it felt far off, like the pain radiated from another point that she couldn't place. The once flat floor tilted to the side and she became aware of a blotch of red in her peripheral vision. With this realization the pain turned into a throbbing that made her sick to her stomach before she passed into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Alright alright, this chapter sucked, so sorry. I'll try to do better next time. I honestly think this was my worst chapter. Remember, Emily whump...  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, a bit dark from here on, too, but I promise there's a happy ending. Also, this chapter is crappy because I had a breakdown today at school and I just wanted to write; didn't want to concern myself with the quality or, evidently, the quantity. Hope you guys don't mind.**

* * *

"_I am a member of a team, and I rely on the team, I defer to it and sacrifice for it, because the team, not the individual, is the ultimate champion." –Mia Hamm_

* * *

Waking up was never, in retrospect, a pleasant experience. Usually the cause was an alarm clock, blaringly reminding her of a day at work. Now, it was a shocking cold.

It took a few moments, but she registered it wasn't liquid. It was just a source of cold that in her state, she couldn't place. Everything was still black, even though she could have sworn she opened her eyes. She made a sound that came out as a mixture of a groan and a sigh and tried to shift, allow herself to slip back into oblivion. Fate had other plans.

Her back and head erupted with pain as soon as she moved. Now she inhaled sharply, feeling the coldness bite roughly into her skin. The jolt of pain brought her senses to life, although, she noted, they weren't functioning very effectively at the moment.

The world in front of her was swirling uncertainly. It was a swarm of grays, light and dark alike, contrasting, pooling together and then reshaping before anything definite or solid formed. Here and there were accents of a dark red, orange brownish maybe. Even as she watched the movements, her head throbbed with one of the most painful migraines she ever remembered having and she tried to pull her hands down to relieve it, only to feel metal cut into her skin. The warmth of blood trickling down her arms alerted her.

Now she was in full agent mode, trying her best to focus on a world that refused to cooperate. Even though her grip on reality was strong, her grasp on the world around her was not; a frustrating predicament. No matter how much effort she put into it, she couldn't still anything. Impatient, she tried to shake her head to rid herself of the blurriness, only to have another shock of sharp pain resonate through her skull. She futilely tried to hold in a pained whimper, which ended up escaping her anyway.

Sound was added to the mixture, as if her pounding head wasn't confused enough. Varying tones, voices maybe, humming together in one continuous buzz. The tones had notes of urgency, and she assumed they were calling to her. The voice, whomever's it was, was like a life line.

When she clung to it she was brought back to a clearer world. The colors melded and turned into the differing shades of light and dark grays that colored the room she was currently being held in. That included the walls that held no windows or visible doors from her angle, and the cold floor underneath her. Not to mention the rusty pipes, which she presumed to have been the touch of brownish while in her semi-conscious state.

She sluggishly tried to turn her head to acknowledge whoever was speaking, but a splitting spark of pain ran down, from her head down her spine, and she halted. Apparently she made the pain obvious in her expression, because the voices—she could identify them as multiple people now—hushed. Were they other kidnap victims? They were in their UnSub's house, right? Right? She couldn't remember.

"Emily?" The voice was warbled but she was able to distinguish her name as the cellar came back into focus once more. It most definitely did not belong to a stranger. Her head felt like a ton of bricks, and she relented to lean her head against her arm. With this action, she realized said arm was completely numb, and when she tugged on it, she concluded that she was shackled. To a rusty pipe.

"Don't try to move," another voice said in response. It was slightly clearer now, the pitch slightly softer, even childlike. It comforted her, though she had no clue as to why.

"What happened?" This one was much more unique, definitely feminine. A fuzzy picture of JJ came to mind.

"Cr'bar," she slurred, unable to properly pronounce anything. "Pain." She whimpered again, as if to prove her point. Her eyelids slid closed, plunging her back into a world of darkness, but not a world without her other four senses.

"He hit her with a crowbar. That's not in his M.O.," a lower toned voice pointed out, and the authority laced within it made Hotch the most obvious suggestion.

"Something went wrong," another voice shared, and as she focused on only sounds, she was able to match this voice up to Rossi. It occurred to her that the whole team may very well be chained here along with her, and the thought made her heart drop. She cared about each and every one of them deeply, no matter how they felt in return. It hurt to know that they were all in danger and at the mercy of an unstable man. In fact, she'd much rather it be just her. That would be perfectly suitable. After all, it didn't matter to her anymore, if she died. Who would miss her? She had already been dead for eight months.

The realization should have disturbed her. What was wrong with her?

"K'cked 'im," Emily supplied, feeling her head loll to her chest when she no longer possessed the energy to hold any position, nor the motivation. "'E 'it a dr'ss'r," she attempted to say, but she was beginning to feel sick, and her headache was somehow managing to escalate. "'Ere was a sou'd."

"What kind of sound?" someone inquired, but she couldn't place the speaker anymore. Did it matter? It didn't sound like whoever it was cared for her wellbeing whatsoever, to her, at least. Quite frankly, as a side note, she was surprised that anyone could understand her in the first place.

"'Ike some'in wet," she said, struggling to recall the brief event now. Once the details came back to her, she made a strong effort to lift her head and open her eyes as far as they'd go which, admittedly, was not very much. The edges of her vision were tinted with a now familiar darkness, even as she tried to blink it away to better see her team. A blotch of red obscured her sight, and she recognized it to be blood. Her blood.

"So, she kicked him, and he dropped the chloroform rag?"

"Probably stunned him. Caught him offguard."

"So he's violent now—"

"—impulsive—"

"—doesn't care—"

As they continued to speculate and better tweak the profile, their voices melded together, further intensifying her headache. She tried to let them know, before she passed out from exhaustion and pain, to let Louis do whatever he pleased to her; she'd take it as long as they got out alive.

She never received the chance. The next moment their sounds stilled as a metal door opened with the telltale squeaking of rusted metal that really could use an oiling, not that their UnSub would particularly take heed of such a trifling thing when he could be committing brutal murder.

"She finally woke up," he spoke, presumably referring to her, clearest now that she was shoved back into full awareness with the rush of fear and adrenaline that accompanied his abrupt entrance. "Great. Now."

When she forced her eyes open she saw him crouching down on the ground facing the team, a roll of plain silver duct tape around his wrist. It turned out the team all turned out to be shackled to the same pipe as her, lining them up against the same wall. The more she knew of her surroundings, the better.

His cold, wild eyes grazed over the team appreciatively, longingly, before letting his gaze sit on Hotch. Had she been able to see him, she was sure she'd see bravery and calmness settling in his dark gaze, meeting their UnSub in a challenge.

"Who first?"

For a few moments, silence greeted his eerie words. The team really had no choice in the matter. It wasn't as if any of them were in the condition to rebel, even when he unchained his chosen victim. It unfortunately seemed that someone was going to have to take one for the team, and hope to get out alive, or they would have to smooth talk him. He wasn't the type to be swayed or convinced otherwise, though, as they had learned from the carefully laid out profile, making the chances of getting out of here by the powers of clever verbal communication slim.

It was the perfect opportunity for her, so she forced her voice to remain steady and focused on not slurring. It didn't matter that Hotch was preparing a careful response. She didn't care. She, sickeningly enough, desired this, felt like she deserved it.

"Me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Am I sick in the head? Quite possibly! Two quizzes today, enough homework to keep me busy for a good hour or so, a shower to take, and I'm writing you guys another chapter only the preceding day! Although, I have to say, I really enjoyed writing this chapter—don't ask me why, not like I'm very good with violence—and am quite pleased with how it came out. Don't worry, I don't actually enjoy this kind of stuff in real life. Although maybe I should be attending therapy sessions. I do hope you read these quotes, as a side note; I go to the trouble of finding them… Lastly, I also hope you read **A Thousand Cranes**. I really am very proud of it, and do review if you have read it. Do I expect too much of you guys? So sorry. Just letting you know. Oh, and read stories by **ilovetvalot**—they're to die for. Really good writing there, and I'm not even sure if she reads this story… ah well, nobody should have to miss out on her work!**

**Sorry for rambling. R&R!**

* * *

"_Remorse is the pain of sin." –Theodore Parker_

* * *

Her volunteering elicited plenty of varying responses. Rossi and JJ were on the far side of the wall, meaning she couldn't quite see them, but she did note a flash of blond hair as JJ whipped her head around to peer at her. Reid, who was closest to her, instantly took on a look of fear as memories bubbled to the surface from the ordeal with Cyrus that he'd rather have kept buried.

As he began to panic when she didn't take it back, she noticed both Morgan and Hotch give her scornful looks. _Let us talk it out first, _their expressions were as easy to read as a book. It was like communicating in a foreign language that she was fluent in. _Don't jump to this yet. We can work this out. Don't give him what he wants._ She subtly shook her head at them, pushing the sense of pain from the movement to the back of her mind, earning her an impatient glare from Morgan and a contemplative one from Hotch that he didn't bother to hide.

Eventually, she dragged her line of sight away from the two men and Reid, who was showing the beginning signs of a panic attack. She felt guilty for causing him to relive such awful times, but one way or another, he'd understand later. If there was a later. The team would comfort him, of that she was sure. More than one team member had come to favor the young genius, with so much skill and potential it far surpassed that of anyone's any of them had met before, not to mention an unbreakable innocence that nobody could hope to withstand. He deserved soothing words, gentle hugs, and especially, above all things, goodbyes. She wasn't worthy of any of it.

Silence reigned, with the exception of the heavy breathing coming from Reid. It remained that way, an ominous hush settling upon all of them, until Emily thought to lift her eyes.

The dark, venomous green irises that her own brown ones met shocked her, giving her the feeling of wanting to curl up and hideaway like a very, very guilty child. Not just one that had broken something, or spilled something on an expensive white carpet, but one that had been caught smoking. The sinking, tight feeling in her chest was _that_ severe, even overwhelming. For a fleeting second she had regrets, but then she reminded herself why she had spoken, and was able to mask the stirrings of fear inside her.

That locking of the eyes was all it took. Terror had twisted her expression just long enough for Louis to notice, and that was all he desired. For the few minutes of silence while she had been observing her teammates responses he had been staring at her, looking her over, even going so far as to shamelessly undress her with his eyes. Now as she displayed exactly what he wanted to see, his mouth turned upwards into a gleeful, if psychotic, grin.

"Good. You'll be fun," he informed her smoothly, not caring to view her outward response. There would be plenty of time for that later, after all. He straightened his legs, twirling the light gray roll of duct tape around his wrist. Finally, and much to her relief, those haunting and demeaning green eyes released hers in search of the person farthest away from her. The grin wiped from his face for now as he set about the evidently boring task, he stepped over, whatever brand of sneakers he was wearing making small tapping noises against the stone floor. Even as he walked he slipped the roll off and ripped a large piece without any difficulty, slapping it without compassion onto Rossi's face the moment he reached him. Apparently, Rossi didn't show any response whatsoever, for Louis quickly moved on to apply the same careless treatment to JJ, Hotch, Morgan, and Reid respectively. He paused at Reid to give the hyperventilating man a disgusted and strange look before tossing the roll of duct tape across the room, somewhere in Rossi and JJ's corner.

Finished, he let his eyes sweep over the silenced team to make sure that the strips of tape were sticking securely. Once satisfied, that damn grin crept back onto his face like a snake to match his once again malicious eyes. As he had learned from his experiences, giving his victim just the right look could scare them terribly. He had made every effort to perfect it, and Emily had to give him credit; he was having the desired effect that he undoubtedly worked so hard to achieve.

He forcibly slowed himself to an agonizing pace as he moved to stand in front of Emily, who, in turn, was becoming more and more alert with every passing second. She contemplated that regaining her senses at this particular time might not be a good thing as he clicked a key into her metal cuffs and turned it. Her arms fell, ungracefully and covered in oozing blood, from their holdings and onto the floor. She didn't have so much as a moment to feel the numbness ebbing away from her arms when her hair was pulled, roughly.

She stumbled forward, her muscles protesting after having been in the same position for God knew how long, ending up collapsing hopelessly onto her knees despite his longing to yank her to a standing position. This fueled an anger that was burning beneath the surface and he automatically jerked her hair again while sending out a rage filled kick, which caught her squarely in the stomach. Winded, she doubled over, wheezing and trying to ignore the stinging pain that accompanied the rough attack. She grimly reminded herself that it was going to get much, much worse than this.

The duct tape had unfortunately served its purpose well. Muffled cries of objection, pain, possibly even remorse and concern were chorusing from her team's direction behind the slivers of tape that prevented intelligible speech. His larger hands circled around both of her injured wrists, seemingly unconcerned with the deep redness that would cover his own hands, and an unwilling whimper escaped her before she had the common sense to muffle it.

This, obviously, delighted him. Adrenaline surged through him and he successfully dragged her to her feet, even though she was unsteady and swaying from the lack of balance caused by the probable concussion. He looked her over only briefly before placing a well aimed kick to her knee, which she admitted was painful as _hell. _If there was a crack of breaking bone, she didn't hear it over the roar of pain that was occupying her senses. Nor did she have a moment to gather or prepare herself before he backhanded her, leaving an already bloody mark on her cheek, and sent another kick to her chest immediately following. This time she felt more than heard the cracks of multiple ribs breaking as she was knocked off her feet and sent to the floor.

The stone underneath scraped her exposed elbows and worsened the bloody injuries she had already acquired along her arms and cheek, and her head began to spin. Feeling faint, she managed to make out Louis' bulkier form, towering over her before squatting down to look at her directly in the face. She was able to muster up an ounce of relief at the realization that she couldn't make out the spitefulness lingering in his poisonous eyes. He waited a few seconds to make sure he had her attention before leaning forward and sneering in her face, hissing out loudly enough so that he was sure her team would hear:

"This is just the beginning."

The last thing she was conscious of were the cries that her teammates were doing their best to convey in spite of the obstructions covering each of their mouths, her limp body being dragged across the cool stone and her wrists being cuffed again before she was thrown back into a very painful and very unsure oblivion.


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay, some serious dark warnings from here on out for a while. I'm not sure why I like the dark stuff, especially considering I'm freaking thirteen and it probably isn't healthy whatsoever. The next chapter, I presume, will be Rated M, though I don't think I'll be very graphic with my descriptions. I do have limitations.**

**On an unrelated note, I got into the science fair at school! Yay! It's for the middle school, and a quarter of the sixth graders got in, half the seventh, and if I'm not mistaken, the majority of the eighth, based on the highest grades on the lab reports. I got a 98/100, earning me a spot as one out of twenty seventh graders to be presenting and given a shot at **_**winning. **_**That also means, though, that I'm spending some time doing some extra work for my poster and presentation, possibly limiting my writing time, though I doubt it. Just realized I forgot to write a few things that I wanted to in this chapter, since it got too long—I promise I'll do it next chapter.**

**Lastly, an idea began forming in my head today for a new multi-chapter Emily fic while dancing at a club (don't worry, it was a batmitzvah!). Probably some more whumpage, since I really have a sick fascination and obsession with it, but not nearly as dark. If I do use it, though, it won't start until after this concludes.**

**Also, I have no clue if a severe wound can still bleed after eight months, but for the sake of the story, and for fanFICTION, pretend it does. XD**

**HOLY CRAP I JUST REALIZED IN THAT CLIP WHERE THE TEAM DISCOVERS PRENTISS LEFT IN LAUREN, WHEN HOTCH CALLS HER CELL PHONE AND FINDS IT IN HER DRAWER, A PICTURE COMES UP OF HIM SMILING! !  
**

**R&R!**

* * *

"_Everyone has his faults which he continually repeats: neither fear nor shame can cure them." –Jean de La Fontaine_

* * *

"There's something… different about you guys," Louis mused only half to himself as he righted his position after having re-chained Emily's now limp body. He took a few steps backwards, contemplating her in an almost human manner. Indeed, everyone on the team, with the exceptions of the women for obvious reasons, were noting various alterations in the behavior they had predicted and expected to see from him. It was curious that he noticed these minute changes as well, and a stirring of fear passed through the men. Louis was now a very, very unpredictable man as a result, and they were to except some things out of the ordinary. Since he had only been escalating before they had uncovered his identity, it was easy to assume the change in his M.O. would follow to something much more brutal. None of this spelled good news for Emily.

Before any of them could delve too deep into that mine field, Louis spoke again, pacing lazily back and forth in front of the line of profilers. "I think I'm getting bored," he continued to ponder, tilting his head in order to observe his new group of victims as he moved. "That's weird," he frowned, averting his gaze back to the cold ground underfoot. The team couldn't comment and reassure him that no, his boredom, as he put it, was not at all uncommon. Not that they thought he would really desire their input anyhow.

Evidently, perhaps he did. In one swift moment he, without any warning, surged forward at the person closest to him, who happened to be Morgan, and ripped the tape from his mouth. Under other circumstances his team members might have shared a collective chuckle at the high pitched shriek that Morgan emitted in response, but instead they simply winced sympathetically.

When nobody said anything, Louis huffed, a lock of his messy blond hair falling into his face. Had he not been psychotic, he might have been considered boyishly attractive. "Well, say something," he instructed impatiently, folding his arms. "An experiment doesn't work if your test subject doesn't respond."

Morgan puzzled over the scientific reference for only a moment before coming to his senses and complying by voicing the first thing that came to mind. "Let us go now. Once we get out of this, we can already charge you with assault on a federal agent, murder, and rape. If you let us go, we can work something out," Morgan tried to reason, conducting his own test to see if his convincing would do them any good in Louis' new mindset.

It did exactly the opposite, to Morgan's dismay. "Should have _expected _that!" he snapped, taking his anger out on Emily, who was just stirring. He delivered a sharp kick to her abdomen and, to his surprise, watched as she took a sharp intake of breath and held it instead of doubling over.

"What's wrong with you?" he demanded, seeing the red stain that was beginning to blossom on her light blue field shirt, bare without the bulletproof vest she had come in with. (After all, Louis wasn't entirely stupid.) He leaned down and tore open her shirt without care, the sound of shredding cloth temporarily filling the room. An angry wound was bleeding profusely from her abdomen, and since Reid was refusing to watch, the team couldn't exactly see what it was Louis was suddenly so fascinated with and intrigued by.

"What's that from?" he inquired roughly, his tone lacking the concern that a question like that would have carried. Instead it was cold, condescending.

"G…getting stabbed," she gasped breathlessly as she tried to get a handle on the pain, a slow but steady trickle of blood escaping the near fatal wound.

Her admission grabbed the team's attention. Reid couldn't resist turning his gaze to take in a half naked Emily, with the exception of her bra and anything below the waist, but he could care less about what she was or wasn't wearing. What he was worried about was the jagged and recently reopened scar that nearly covered her abdomen. He wanted to be sick, if only for Emily's sake, but he couldn't.

What disturbed him was the look he noticed Louis was now giving Emily. While his intentions had been impulsive, only caring to see what caused her spontaneous bleeding and strange reaction, it had now changed to what Reid had been avoiding; the area covered by her bra, the area that was unmarked for the most part. His green eyes were now hungry, lusting, and furious. Not a good combination for a rapist and murderer.

He felt an overwhelming guilt begin to stir in his stomach that he was not alone in experiencing when Louis, fueled by desire, lurched forward and hastily unlocked her cuffs. Her wrists bleeding copiously now, he grabbed her dark hair, some of it stained with blood from her concussion, and dragged her to the middle of the room. He deposited her there, unconcerned with the slim chance that she may get up and attack him from behind. If she dared to do that, anyway, he could easily overpower and stop delaying the inevitable.

Emily sunk to the floor with no attempt to remain upright, her vision no longer cloudy and hazy. She could clearly see the team, their eyes unwillingly fixed on her, more specifically, the wound. Suddenly she felt exposed, though not due to her lack of a shirt. Vulnerable was another dominating feeling in her chest. The spotlight, in this cellar, was uncomfortable and undesired, but could not be helped.

"Hmm," Louis contemplated aloud, looking at the powerless woman at his feet. Then, he smirked. "I want to try something. I'll be right back," he announced, abruptly leaving the room through a door next to Rossi that Emily hadn't seen earlier.

As soon as the door closed with a short bang Emily whimpered in pain, shutting her eyes tightly, not allowing herself to be troubled with displaying her pain to the team. She wasn't sure how she felt anymore, quite frankly. Did she want to die? Likely. Did she want to be raped before that happened, and go through an immense amount of pain? Not quite. Did she deserve it? She convinced herself that yes, she did. Besides, she was willingly risking her life and hurting herself both mentally and physically, all possibly beyond repair, in order to ensure that they had the best chance of getting out of this alive. How she felt about that, she was undecided.

That last message about purposely putting herself on the line for their sakes was clear to the team, and this caused an unbelievable rush of guilt. It was unfathomable, now that they looked back, how cruel they had been to her in the past days (with the exception of JJ, who simply felt ashamed that she had been unable to do anything more). They questioned the reasoning behind her volunteering, though, and Morgan, being the only one free to converse and figuring that Louis might have wanted him to anyway, asked.

"Emily," he spoke softly, trying not to alarm her with a harsh voice similar to Louis'. When she didn't respond he tried again, almost cooing to her, trying to get her attention. "Emily, Em, can you hear me?" When she finally blinked her eyes open he forced an enthusiastic tone and encouraged her, painfully reminded of the day roughly eight months ago when she had initially acquired that wound in her stomach. "That's it, stay awake. I need to ask you something."

It was silent for a few moments as Emily struggled to grasp onto consciousness long enough for Morgan to ask her whatever was on his mind. At least this time, it was a comfort knowing she was fading because she was exhausted, and not because she had been pushed over the pain precipice.

Once Morgan was sure she was capable of providing a sincere answer, he vocalized the question that rang clearly through everyone's mind. "Why are you doing this?"

Her answer was short, not so sweet, and to the point; her tone casual around the cracks inflicted by the physical pain, as if she could be talking about the weather. "Because," she responded, "I've already been dead for eight months. Might as well stay that way."

The impact of her simple confession hit Morgan full force, and he realized with a sinking heart how negatively his behavior might—no, had—affected her of late. Like Reid, he hadn't been thinking about her, only himself. It was selfish, inconsiderate, rude, and gave both her and himself every right to call him every name under the sun. Why wasn't she doing so? He was certainly cursing himself out in every way he knew how. He yearned desperately to reach out to her, spew out a steady stream of apologies, soothe her pain and let her know he missed her dearly, not to mention beat himself up. Every day of those eight months he had strongly wished she had never died, that it was all just a nightmare. So, how come, when it actually happened, he couldn't accept it? Something along the lines of "it was too good to be true" came to mind, although that didn't seem an adequate enough excuse for his conduct towards her. It was absolutely childish, beyond insensitive, and he desperately wished he could take it all back.

Before he could dwell on his drastic mistakes and further self loathe, the door swung open with a loud screech that Emily flinched at. What drew her attention immediately after, though, was the glinting of a polished metal object in the dim light provided by the bulb positioned in the center of the ceiling. It was horrible in itself, the silent and deadly promises it conveyed to an anxious and fearful Emily and company increasing heart rates all around, a weapon that perfectly matched the expression of its wielder, despite its lack of a face. That smooth metal was being gripped by its wooden hilt by none other than Louis, grinning evilly, even playfully, as he twirled the object, watching out of the corner of his eye in admiration as it reflected the muted lighting, even acting as a mirror to show Louis Emily's terrified features for a fleeting second. He chuckled lowly.

"I wonder how this is going to turn out."

* * *

**Just letting you know for the future—I'm going to write a one-shot for the 100****th**** viewer based on any prompt(s)/characters of their choice. I'm going to ask that nobody review multiple times on the same chapter, so that everyone has an equal shot. It should be a random thing that goes to a lucky person. I'm not even sure if anyone really wants a one-shot by me, since I honestly don't think my writing is that spectacular, even remotely, but hey, I'm giving it a shot for fun.**

**I did promise **jasmin1456 **a M/P one-shot in the future, so once I get some ideas from her, expect to see that :)**

**Oh, and don't be a stranger—PM me, I love chatting (especially during reading at school when I go online on my NookColor and nobody knows).**


	13. Chapter 13

**Dark warnings and violence, but the M-rated warning has been relieved due to some feedback from my reviewers. Thank you. Hear me out: only one more chapter while they're stuck here with nasty Louis, and it will be more of an overview. So, this is the last of the violence.**

**I've started the one-shot for **jasmin1456**, although I haven't gotten very far. It will be titled, "April Showers..."**

**Oh, and this chapter's been edited due to a few nagging typos. And Osama Bin Laden's dead...  
**

**R&R.**

* * *

"_Everyone will experience the consequences of his own acts. If his acts are right, he'll get good consequences; if they're not, he'll suffer for it." –Harry Browne_

* * *

As soon as she felt her limbs respond again once he took a step forward, she put her hands out behind her and scrambled backwards. The movement agitated the open wounds on her wrists and abdomen and they throbbed and bled painfully, but her only instinct was to get away from that glinting steel in his hand. The team watched, helpless, as he advanced on a defenseless Emily with a weapon that had the potential to take her life—for real.

"No…" she said breathily, just above a whisper as her back hit the far wall. Her dark eyes were fixated on the surprisingly clean knife in his bruised hand and she acknowledged what that hand had done and where it had been. The pain it had already mercilessly inflicted upon women and men alike, younger and older, people with full lives ahead of them. The lives it had already stolen, the injuries it had caused, the trauma it had wrecked, and now that it wielded a weapon, she couldn't—and, quite frankly, didn't want to—imagine what it was going to do to her in the end.

Had her dark gaze not been so fixated on the knife that was coming nearer and nearer to her, she might have noticed the raw shame and concern emanating in waves from her teammates. Reid was silently sobbing, tilting his head towards his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to remain quiet. Morgan had a deadly look to his features, but he had his head turned away so that he could only view the action playing out in front of him in the corner of his eye. His arms, stretched above his head, were trembling with the desire to reach out and punch—no, strangle—something—some_one. _Hotch looked conflicted, and it showed minutely in his expression and in the deep depths of his eyes. He looked as he had while they listened to Emily getting beaten up the first time; only now he was seeing it firsthand, and it was all the more horrible. Like the others, his gaze was shifted downwards towards the ground, not sure he could be able to leave without emotional scarring if he allowed the image of Emily getting hurt to imprint itself on his memory. Rossi had tears welling in his eyes that he refused to shed, taking light breaths periodically to assure that he stayed as composed as possible while he listened to the agony of his close friend. Following the trend, his chin was on his chest for the same reasons, the weight of helplessness much heavier. Lastly was JJ, who was outright bawling, muffled sounds to justify this coming from her body as she shook, hiding her tearful face in the crook of her elbow.

Outward appearances differed vastly from the feelings creating turmoil and havoc within. Aside from Morgan's own anger, directed at himself, of course, there was Reid's endless remorse at not having been able to man up and face her properly. There was Hotch's regret at not having welcomed her back like he should have and making no moves to assure that she was mentally sound. (He made the excuse of how could he have known, since she was unfortunately skilled at hiding it, but he reminded himself that not as her boss, but as her friend, he should have _done _something.) Rossi was reliving that day in the waiting room when he had initially learned the earth shattering fate of his friend, which had later turned out to be a lie. The twisting in his chest, the sickening feeling rising in his throat; it was all familiar, except for the level of brutality. Then JJ, who was repulsed by the scene taking place in front of her, and finding a way to blame herself for it. She had done everything in her power, or so she thought, to assure that Emily _wouldn't _become self destructive. Ultimately, she had failed and the opposite had occurred, and she felt powerless and repeated, like a mantra, why wasn't it her. Emily didn't deserve this.

Louis bent down to Emily's level, trapping her against the cold wall, sneering in her face with the knife in between them. Suddenly he slashed at her, and her outcry of pain and shock resonated throughout the room, echoing off the walls, reminding the team of their mistakes. They had to watch as blood poured from the new, and concerning, cut she acquired that ran across her ribs. The blood, a deep crimson, dripped from her paling body to the floor, joining that of the old, dried blood of his previous victims.

Evidently fond of the method of force, he snatched her raven hair and pulled her to her feet. Once standing, he pushed her roughly against the wall, face first, so that he was pressing his body to her back and pinning her between himself and the cellar wall. The knife threatened at her shoulder, inches away from the vulnerable flesh of her neck, and Emily whimpered as she shivered.

She didn't fight back as he slammed her forcefully against the wall again, watching blood fall from her earlier cheek wound and her mouth. He created another worrying gash across her back, from left shoulder to right hip that began to bleed only moments after having been inflicted. She cried out again, only to have the sound bounce back to her and tear the hearts of her teammates. It didn't help that she wasn't fighting back, wasn't putting up any sort of fight, and wasn't showing any sign that she disliked the abuse her body was taking.

It was a disturbing and heart wrenching realization.

This was beyond the apprehending of an unsub gone wrong. This was personal, and it just took violence and a psychotic rapist and murderer to make them come to their senses.

To say they felt horrible was a severe understatement, but the simplest version.

He slid the knife across the skin where her neck and shoulder met, opening another wound that went on to bleed profusely across her once unmarked ivory skin. With the same low chuckle he yanked her backwards by her injured wrists, throwing her to the floor. She landed with a thud and a half grunt, half moan of pain before he descended upon her, relentlessly landing kicks repeatedly to her already bleeding sides and broken ribs, further worsening her wounds and creating new ones.

Eventually he stilled when her pants tore. A small tear, but it revealed the smooth skin of her thigh, and that was apparently tantalizing and tempting enough. He was on his knees in moments, ripping the remaining cloth from her legs until she was only in her undergarments, revealing the blackening bruise he had left earlier from kicking her in the knee. She shivered, until she realized what his intentions were, and she gasped.

"No, no please, please don't, stop…" she begged and pleaded, her voice high and cracking with pain as she tried to wriggle out from underneath him. In response he pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, with the other holding the glinting and now bloody knife to her neck.

"If you resist what's going to happen now, I will cut your throat open. Do you understand me?" he growled at her as his wandering hand disappeared, out of everyone's sight, between their bodies.

Unable to watch anymore and do nothing, Morgan finally shouted out at him, his voice betraying the burning anger that was flaring up. "Get off her, you bastard!"

Astonishingly, Morgan's outburst got Louis' attention. Distracted, he whipped his head to glance at Morgan over his shoulder, his green eyes cold and malicious. A few moments of silence passed where Morgan writhed and struggled against his cuffs, JJ continued her softened sniveling, and Emily shook like a leaf. Morgan, despite his continual attempts to liberate himself, met Louis' challenging and testing gaze with his own chocolate brown eyes, fueling his stare with the anger at himself and Emily's vulnerability, desperately hoping he might have made a difference, and for the better.

Somehow, Morgan managed to have caught Louis off guard. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice or the murderous intensity in his eyes, but Louis felt compelled to move off of her and, thankfully, return his hand to his side. Instead of taking what he could be, he stood and walked over to Morgan, leaning down with the bloody knife hovering centimeters in front of the agent's dark face. When he didn't flinch or tone down his fury, Louis snorted unhappily and pocketed the knife for now.

"Fine," he complied, infuriated, standing straight once more and exiting the room with a bang.

Without hesitation, Emily broke into shuddering sobs, sore, hurting, bloody, beaten, bruised, and for the most part, exposed. She stumbled to her feet unsteadily, swaying and quaking all the way as tremors overtook her body and distorted every movement she made. The team observed her pitifully as she moved forward as much as possible, restricted by her lack of energy and her elevated pain threshold, leaving a trail of blood, before toppling down next to Hotch. Like a child seeking comfort she clung to him, wrapping her bare stained crimson arms around his chest and holding on to him for dear life while she shuddered. He longed to return the embrace, but, constrained, he relented and instead pressed his forehead to the top of her dark tangled hair as she cried into his shirt. It no longer mattered that her blood and tears were soaking into the light cotton of his dress shirt, or that this intimate show of behavior might have been better suited for a more personal confrontation and not displayed for the team to watch and not under these dangerous circumstances, where any moment she could be taken from him.

For hours she sat there, shook, and cried, breathing hard as she fought to regain control of her body. Even when she failed he hushed her, humming behind the tape into her hair and consoling her as best he knew how. The team collectively wept around him in their own various ways; for Emily, for their blunders and insensitive behavior, for the suffering she was enduring on her own, for the memories that were dredging up from those terrible days eight months ago.

They couldn't lose her. Not again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Long chapter, tad confusing, don't ask me why, wasn't done purposely. No other news to report, and the M/P one-shot hasn't progressed. Thank you for all your suggestions and I promise they will all be taken into consideration and I will try to figure out a way to incorporate all of them so that you, my faithful and dedicated readers, are satisfied :) So R&R.**

* * *

"_Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." –Winston Churchill_

* * *

It broke whatever remnants of Hotch's already frayed heart there were when Louis returned and roughly shattered their intimate connection by prying her off of Hotch and dragging her away by gripping her body under her frail, bloody arms. Once she was sobbing again, as the warm, familiar touch of Hotch had quieted her and offered her a temporary respite from the pain, Louis had grinned that malevolent grin of his at his obvious triumph and the effect he had on her, tossed her to the ground, and continued his physical assault on her until her head was lolling to the side.

As soon as the source of body heat that Emily provided had abruptly faded and Hotch watched, taking an inward stab to the heart with every kick, every punch, every slap, every cut, every throw, listened to her agonizing cries, screams, pleas, sniffles, and haggard breathing, he decided that they either got her and the team out of there soon, or not at all.

* * *

Often, people tended to exaggerate when saying that "this was the worst week of my life." However, everyone knew there were always shoddier weeks to come, even months, and it didn't take a psychic to predict that. When Hotch reflected on the previous week with a unresponsive Emily clutched bridle style in his arms, he could safely admit that it was no overstatement when he said that this past week was indeed the most horrible one he had ever been forced to endure in his life.

It was one thing to see the evidence of the torture and the beatings, to read about it in a medical examiner's report, or to speculate about the events that took place to lead to the victim's typically untimely death. There was no personal connection there and he had most definitely not experienced it firsthand in any way, shape, or variation. His status as an onlooker and observer was something he had taken for granted up 'till now. Now, he wished that he could have remained that way until he retired. The images he had seen, the pained howls that kept replaying like a broken record in his head, that could never be forgotten, could never be unseen or unheard, no matter how much he desperately wished to be relieved of it. What _she_ must have gone through, actually taking the suffering and being the one to whimper and feel the excruciating pain, he could only imagine. To say he felt pitiful towards her, just from hearing the sounds she made to betray the hurt, was a severe understatement. Not to mention the pain _he_ felt, although he was sure the mental cuts were far less brutal than the ones she had been forced to suffer through.

Over the past week, the team had been forced to watch, forced to hear, every single hit that Emily took, further marring her once smooth expanse of skin. What horrible actions and consequences Hotch had monitored, he wasn't alone in. The rest of the team could say they had been there too, and any sound that Hotch heard, they heard. Anything that he saw, they saw.

The only reason they were still alive was that Louis had decided, luckily for them, to keep them barely nourished with small portions of bread, water, and cheese. The water was tap, not the best quality, and the bread a tad too rigid for what the healthy texture should have been for the basic food, but it had sufficed. The team, for the most part, had taken no physical tolling during their imprisonment, with the exception of a sleeping limb here or there. In which case they simply shifted their positions and went on, the brief discomfort insignificant in comparison to their friend's.

At some point earlier on, Morgan had somehow managed to stand, at which Louis had become infuriated. In response he had gone about the task of shackling every member down to a smaller pipe that ran along the floor, which kept them seated and reduced the risk of losing their arms due to the lack of circulation.

Emily had not received the same treatment. Louis had most definitely made a few tweaks in his M.O. this time around, one of which being his negligence to chain Emily up again. Not that it made much of a difference, considering she quickly hadn't able to retain enough energy to so much as sit up, let alone collapse at Hotch's side again. Another one, that perhaps was on a much more positive note, was that Louis had removed the tape, albeit hatefully, from everyone's mouths, leaving them free to talk. Why Louis had done this, despite the fact that it went against the M.O.—none of them were exactly certain. The best and most agreed upon guess that had gone around was that he wanted an excuse to inflict even more hurt onto Emily, which, once the team was able to confirm, they refused to provide him with.

Often, when she slept, it was because of a hit to the head, too much blood loss, or fainting. On the infrequent occasions where she fell asleep on her own due to the exhaustion, she woke only mere minutes later, screaming, trembling, crying, afraid, in a vast amount of pain. The shaking had started on day three and hadn't yet ceased, even while she was unconscious. Reid suggested it might have been from the cold, seeing as how she was teetering on the fine line between being clothed and being naked, in a cold cellar without any heating system, or any source of heat. He had gone on to say there was a high risk of her contracting hypothermia.

The same routine had repeated day after miserable day, with the exclusion of Emily's rapid energy deterioration, caused by Louis purposely avoiding giving her anything whatsoever to digest, including water. She had become sick multiple times, but when nothing ever came up, she simply felt her stomach wrench and contract painfully until tears sprung unwillingly to her hollow eyes. Violence seemed to be the occupation that took up the majority of every day. Louis came in, beat Emily to a pulp until her body stilled and stopped responding, and then he'd either leave or sit and wait until she stirred again. When he did sit, all he did to busy himself was brandish the knife and fixate his gaze on the sharp edges, stained with Emily's dried and fresh blood, his eyes filled with a disturbing admiration. There was only one more incident where Louis had come very close to raping her, having pinned her in an even more compromising position with her legs parted and his wandering, bruised hand in places where it should have never been. He only stilled his movements when the team had subconsciously collaborated to cause such a banging and clattering ruckus with the metal cuffs that Louis had been too distracted to continue. Thankfully, he never did.

It was indeterminable how scarred Emily would be after this ordeal; both physically and mentally. There were a number of gashes created by the knife that Louis had come to favor that accumulated and gotten to the point where there were too many to count, and too bloody to even pinpoint. Her body was covered in a thin layer of smeared blood, like a scene out of a horror movie. If she looked that awful, how she must feel on the inside.

As the days passed, Emily was spending less and less time aware. During the times that she was awake and miraculously not getting manhandled and or thrown around like a helpless rag doll, she was scarcely ever coherent. When she was, those were the only times where the team's hearts shattered without having Louis in the room to bad mouth her, demean her, and set those vehement green eyes on her body, which had swiftly become his play thing, his punching bag. For, when she was communicative and lucid, the only words she ever uttered were along the lines of, "Help me," "Make it stop," "It hurts," "Don't hurt me anymore." When Louis was around and she happened to be articulate, the only words that came out of her mouth were tortuous, pain filled pleas. Unfortunately, they always fell on the wrong deaf ears—those of Louis'. On the other hand, they rang loud in clear for each member of the grieving, remorseful team.

* * *

Was it really over, then? That endless suffering, where time held no meaning and their fates seemed to have been sealed? By some fortunate phenomenon it had happened, they had made their escape, leaving behind the surely and very deceased body of Louis. Running now through the hallway of the house the team had only been surveying a week ago—as Hotch had been able to determine by checking a calendar Louis had surprisingly kept up to date in between visits—he wasn't even sure if his precious bundle was alive. It was a wonder she had held out this long, and with the rush of adrenaline and the pure urgency to get out as fast as possible, nobody had checked her pulse yet. Still, her body was frigid and cold against his own, not the same life-promising heat he had shared with her while she was still even remotely mobile.

Their shabbily plotted escape had, astonishingly, gone off without a hitch. Then again, it was more of a hasty, unspoken thing. They had taken their chance when Louis had presumed Emily, who turned out to apparently have been his favorite victim, to be dead. He had made the mistake of choosing a silently fuming Hotch as his next dummy almost instantly after giving the proclamation of her supposed death, but Hotch had the right of mind to lash out at him as soon as his wrists were freed from the manacles. One hard fist to the face and Louis was down, bleeding, and disoriented. Hotch had taken advantage of the few seconds he had before Louis retaliated and had swiped his knife and, without so much as a hesitation, slid it across the throat of the man that had caused Emily so much pain right before his eyes. From there, his course of action was pretty clear: free his teammates, scoop up a frighteningly vitality-deficient Emily, and make a break for it before any unknown horrors creeping in the shadows stole any promises of having Emily back again for good.

* * *

Now natural, fresh sunlight was assaulting his dark eyes and dirty clothing as Morgan wasted no time in finding the nearest telephone and dialing the necessary numbers to get them assistance as fast as possible and let their superiors and the NY police department know of their whereabouts and condition.

Finally, with a moment of peace and clarity and with the remaining adrenaline ebbing away from his sore and emotionally worn muscles, Hotch thought to set Emily down on a patch of bright green grass and check for signs of life, for signals that she was indeed still with them and would live to see another sunrise. JJ, Morgan, Rossi, and Reid watched cautiously, apprehensively, as Hotch slowly set her down so as not to further agitate any of her multitudes of wounds, sat down on his knees, and set his fingers upon an unmarked area of skin on her neck, finding that it was bitingly and shockingly cool underneath his fingertips.

She most definitely hadn't woken up from her last session with Louis, hadn't even had a nightmare.

Her chest was motionless, the circulation of air still like a broken machine, the branded clover unmoving.

The thrumming of a heartbeat under Hotch's fingers was unmistakably and heart wrenchingly nonexistent.


	15. Chapter 15

**Ohhh, I'm so upset! I totally, totally, completely failed my science fair presentation! I actually had a shot this year and I screwed it up! Me and my stupid stage fright… I nearly had a panic attack, I kid you not. Not that you care…**

**I've been receiving an astounding amount of reviews and suggestions, and I'd like to say thank you. Remember, the person to submit the 100****th**** review gets a one-shot dedicated to them, based on prompt(s) of their choice (I'll send whoever this turns out to be a PM responding to their review). Currently, my only writing projects on FF are this, the one-shot for **jasmin1456**, and this upcoming one-shot.**

**Oh, and for those who are curious: I live in EST, and school ends at 3. I get home at around 4.**

**Lastly - would you guys be alright if Emily clung to Garcia?  
**

**Anyhow. R&R.**

* * *

"_Death is always around the corner, but often our society gives it inordinate help." –Carter Burwell_

* * *

Hotch could have never imagined that the first time he pressed his lips to Emily's—if there ever was a first time—would be under these dire circumstances. Especially because she wasn't going to reciprocate.

As soon as the look of sheer panic swept across Hotch's face for that fleeting moment, the team reacted. What might have once been a tranquil location to recollect themselves was now full of havoc, distress and panic as Hotch desperately tried to revive the friend he had acted so harshly towards. There would be time for apologies and to smooth things over later, though, when she was breathing on her own, very much alive, and not on the verge of being lost permanently with no chance of another abrupt resurrection.

The team's hearts were instantly racing as soon as they recognized the telltale signs, the messages being given off from Hotch's normally stoic expression, just like when the team had instantly recognized what JJ's hesitation and red, watery eyes signified. JJ was sobbing frantically across from Hotch, sitting on her knees in the spongy grass, helping Reid and Morgan use their shirts as a thin shield to cover her up with and staunch the areas where she still bled while they awaited the paramedics. Surprisingly, JJ was managing to accomplish this feat, sniveling while effectively attending to her friend to the best of her abilities.

If only he could say that she was responding just as successfully to their relentless efforts. The truth was that she was anything but. However, he refused to give up on her. There were too many things left unsaid, too much pain lingering. They needed her help to heal, and her theirs, although he wasn't too certain that she would be receptive of any assistance they offered once her heart was beating again. If she wasn't, well, Hotch didn't blame her, but all it took for them to heal was for her to survive and time would do the rest.

Even as Reid frantically stuttered directions for properly administering CPR and instructing on how to best tend to her wounds with their limited resources, her heartbeat wouldn't return. The moment Morgan could leave the public telephone booth he had managed to locate and get his shirt over his head and toss it at JJ, he snapped about some trifling thing at Rossi, who happened to be the closest in range, and then dropped to his knees. He stayed well out of the way, cradling his head in his hands, his body language telling stories full of remorse and shame, the words of the day. Rossi, who was honestly too stunned to react as emotionally as his teammates were, found that the best solution may have been to sit next to Morgan and share in his grief.

After a few unsure and agonizingly slow minutes, a trio of screeching ambulances pulled up, the flashing of multicolored lights and the wailing dragging the team out of their trance. JJ looked up and, despite the broad daylight encircling them, the orange and red sirens reflected in the tears running down her cheeks.

"Help's here, Em," she whispered, not caring who heard, as she tightly gripped one of Emily's limp hands in her own two, the fact that Emily's blood was smeared onto her palms in the process not bothering her in the least. Still, the pulse that JJ was acutely looking for was painfully absent.

The paramedics climbed swiftly out of the medical trucks, heading straight for the duo that was closest; Morgan and Rossi. As soon as the two men were pulled unsteadily to their feet, they began to loudly protest the attention, trying to communicate the issue that held more importance and priority. Finally, a mild slap from Rossi and a sharp telling off later, the paramedics hastily abandoned the prospect of dressing any possible wounds they had acquired in pursuit of saving a life instead.

Finally, and much to everyone's relief, the paramedics found Emily's body, with Hotch bent over, trying to instill life back into her. One calmly reassured and distracted him whilst the others worked quickly, pulling her onto a white stretcher and hurriedly asking JJ, who appeared to be the most composed and stable, various questions, none of which she could answer other than: "Does she have a pulse?"

"No."

"Is she breathing?"

"No."

One of them, a short dark skinned lady with wavy locks, shot her a glance full to the brim with sympathy before returning her focus to the injured woman, currently being wheeled into the back of one of the ambulances.

With a trained efficiency, a bag of fluids was hooked up to Emily's arm, along with a small heart rate monitor. When they confirmed that in spite of Hotch's unceasing exertion, her heart still refused to beat, they shocked her. Her body convulsed under the paddles and, when that didn't work, they tried it again.

Hotch, JJ, Rossi, Morgan, and Reid alike never thought that in their lifetimes, a beep could be such a heavenly sound.

"She's stable!"

With the announcement hanging heavily in the air the ambulance doors swung shut and the ambulance safely carrying their friend sped away with renewed urgency and a determination to preserve her threatened life.

With one ambulance disappearing down the road and the remainder of the paramedics buzzing around, a tad less alarm in their movements than there had been a few moments ago, the chaos toned down a significant amount. Defeated, each team member sank down to the grass, beyond exhausted and weary to the point of numbness.

* * *

As it turned out, the only wounds that needed aid were some light ones Morgan had caused himself from the cuffs, and the ones that ran along Hotch's knuckles from slamming his fist powerfully and mercilessly into Louis' face. Once the team was dismissed, they informed the paramedics of the dead body they had left behind, assured them that they would provide them with accurate statements once they were in a better condition, and permitted themselves to relax for now, while they still could. A trio of the medics left with a navy blue body bag clutched between them, prepared for the body that would return in it.

A quiet minute later and the paramedics returned, their bundle heavier and slightly fuller now. They piled Louis' corpse into the back of one of the ambulances and sped off while the team observed absently. Shortly after, two NYPD police cars without anything flashy on slowed to a stop in their place. Among the officers that exited the vehicles was the familiar face of Officer McKenley, who set his sights instantly on the Unit Chief and made a beeline for him.

Hotch stood and made a point to straighten his spine and bring the sternness back to his face, if just to achieve the air of professionalism. That's what everyone would expect and need from him most right now—that strict, let-nothing-bother-you disposition. Someone had to be rational in order to maintain the team's dynamics. If he succumbed to the emotions boiling inside him, the team would undoubtedly collapse.

"Agent Hotchner," Officer McKenley greeted warily, surveying him briefly for any obvious or concerning injuries before meeting his dark, smoldering eyes once more.

"Officer McKenley," Hotch offered curtly but not rudely in return, keeping his voice even. His attitude seemed to contradict his appearance; his once clean dress shirt was now stained with blood, Emily's blood, and his dark pants had been dusted with crimson rust.

"What happened?" McKenley voiced the most obvious question in the book, making an attempt to mask the curiosity but failing miserably.

"We were caught off guard by the UnSub," Hotch supplied, using the old tactic of telling the truth, but providing as little of it as possible.

This strategy didn't evade the officer's notice, but he avoided prying, especially since he could put together the most basic outline of the events that had taken place over the past week based on his knowledge of the case and the UnSub's M.O. "What happened to Agent Prentiss?" he inquired instead.

"She was severely injured." He couldn't resist adding, with the tiniest note of regret, "she acted vicariously."

Unsure how to respond to this admission, McKenley opted to explain the lack of police activity. "We apologize for the delay…" The officer's voice trailed off there as his tone hitched in discomfort, and his gaze averted slightly.

When Hotch set his trademark expectant, demanding, and probing stare on the officer, he relented. "Your computer technician, Penelope Garcia I believe her name was? Well, she was the only one who knew of your location, and one of our newer officers was assigned the task of calling her. I'm assuming she thought it to be one of your agents, because she answered with a line that… may not have been considered office appropriate, and our officer immediately hung up, figuring he had the wrong number. He informed us he couldn't reach her. I know this excuse is less than satisfactory, but I've told you all I know."

Hotch's eyes flicked to his side for a moment where Morgan was standing before raising his eyes towards the sky again. He couldn't help but notice the powder blue expanse that stretched across his sight from end to end, dotted with a puff of white cotton clouds here and there. His expression remained impassive.

Interpreting his silence as disappointment, impatience, and exasperation with the officers of New York, McKenley hurriedly presented him with an appealing proposition. "I understand that your team must have gone through a difficult tribulation," he began, his voice relaying his tentativeness, but he went on anyway. "I believe I speak for all of the police working on this case that we'd be happy to wrap up the paperwork for you, update your superiors back in Quantico, set up a private plane ride to New York for your computer technician, and escort you to the hospital I'm presuming your agent was admitted to."

Hotch quickly dispelled the hope and eagerness that swelled up inside him and decided to save it until he knew Emily was awake again. "Thank you," he replied, biting his tongue to keep from spouting out all his gratitude in a messy and uncharacteristic jumble.

"Agents," Hotch announced loudly, casting a glance over his shoulder at his throng of agents, chattering nervously amongst themselves, oblivious to the conversation that had carried on between Hotch and McKenley.

Instantly four heads snapped up and, upon seeing the minuscule hints of relief in small aspects of his features, they shared a collective breath before hurrying over. Once Officer McKenley had relayed to the agents what Hotch had already heard, they graciously agreed just as Hotch knew they would and climbed into the cop cars without missing a beat.

Hotch gave the officer a polite nod and slipped into the nearest car to join his agents. With JJ and Rossi in the back and Hotch and Officer McKenley in the front, the car started and followed down the paved road that had lead them to this horrible nightmare.


	16. Chapter 16

**I didn't have many ideas for this chapter, I just tried to add more dialogue. Ah well, busy weekend ahead, so don't expect too much from me. Sleepover Friday, barmitzvah and continued sleepover Saturday, and mother's day/my grandmother's birthday on Sunday.**

**I'm happy to announce that **littlegreenbottle **submitted the 100****th**** review! :) Congratulations!**

**Thank you to **Rosajean **for pointing out I forgot Rossi. I don't have time to fix it, so let your mind conjure up what it may - he isn't in this chapter. Sorry xDD Also, for some reason, part of what Garcia says keeps getting cut out.  
**

**R&R!**

* * *

"_There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance." –Gilbert Parker_

* * *

It was a sluggish wait, and the resemblance to a previous memory they all shared (with the exception of JJ) was uncanny. It was also pointless, as it turned out, because some time around ten that night, when the stars were twinkling outside, a doctor came out to inform them her condition wouldn't be changing relatively soon and instructed them to go home and get some sleep. After quite a bit of pestering and a curt reminder of protocol, the team conceded and trudged back to the hotel in the frigid night, their heads numb and their bodies like lead.

* * *

They were promptly woken up the next morning by a bouncing, shimmering, glittery, exuberant, flashy, colorful, and most of all frenzied Garcia. First, she rapped frantically on Hotch's door as if her life depended on it and, when he answered looking more than a little disheveled, she threw her arms around his neck searching for reassurance and managed to get her thoughts out all in one breath, mostly consisting of concern and anxiety.

"OhmygodHotchIwassoworried—"

"Garcia?"

"—IneverthoughtImeanIhoped—"

"Garcia."

"—andnowEmily'shurtandIfeelsobad—"

"Garcia!" he interrupted forcefully.

"Sir?" she inquired, startled by the stern tone. She pulled back to look up at him and, upon realizing what she had just done, smiled sheepishly. Hotch merely shook his head, expecting behavior along these lines from their perky "tech goddess."

"Wake up the others," he directed gently.

"Yes sir, I will sir." She looked a bit more confident and less alarmed now that there was a commanding and authoritative force by her side to keep her from falling apart. The first of the remaining four doors she came to happened to have been JJ's, who was borderline sleepwalking. While Garcia tried to coax her into wakefulness, Hotch completed the task by alerting Reid and Morgan. Both of whom, he was surprised to notice, were already fully dressed, awake, and smelling like the minty toothpaste the hotel provided.

When Hotch raised an eyebrow at their state, Reid shrugged casually. "Couldn't sleep."

"Me, too," Morgan sighed, linking his hands together and placing them behind his neck.

Once JJ was standing steadily on her own without yawning, rubbing her eyes, or otherwise showing signs of collapsing on the spot, Garcia skittered over to hug first Morgan and then Reid.

After having been properly reacquainted, Reid couldn't help but notice the bitter absence of their last team member, which prompted him to ask, "Are we going to go visit Emily?"

"Yes," Hotch nearly instantly responded, wasting no time in passing by the elevator and racing right down the staircase. The team cast furtive glances at one another, quizzical over his haste, before coming to their senses and rushing along right behind him.

* * *

"I'm worried," Reid confessed meekly while the throng of agents trailed after the kind nurse that had offered to escort them down hallway after hallway to Emily's room.

"Why? She'll be alright," JJ attempted to console, despite the hint of uncertainty.

"Physically," Reid replied glumly. "With the trauma she suffered, it's likely she may have an anxiety disorder…" he sighed, rolling his shoulders and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "And I can't foresee any symptoms she may experience as a result. It varies from person to person."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Spence," JJ tried to reassure him, but her voice wavered. It didn't take a profiler to detect this and Reid redirected his gaze to the waxed, glossy, white tiled floor.

"He's right," Morgan said, crestfallen.

Silence remained in the wake of the sullen knowledge they all shared, which was that Reid's prediction was extremely probable. Before they could dwell on this too much, which very well may have been for the better, the nurse leading them slowed to a stop in front of a closed door. She turned to them and smiled as pleasantly as doable while gesturing to the door.

"She's right in here. Try not to excite her too much, please," the nurse advised and couldn't mask the glint of distrust in her dark brown eyes. Not that the team blamed her; she was only looking out for an injured patient.

She lightly pushed the door open and stuck her head inside, careful to make her movements slow and lethargic so as not to alarm her. The team stood and waited patiently but nervously, clenching fists and jaws and swallowing and quelling any ragged breathing.

"Emily?" the nurse called softly, almost as if she were speaking to a baby. She was taking precautions; it was still too early to determine the mental side effects of her ordeal. Moments later, "Your friends are here to see you."

The nurse stepped back again, permitting them to enter and staying off to the side to observe Emily's reactions. The team didn't need a verbal invitation. They filed in, so relieved to be able to confirm that she was alive and breathing that they didn't think to act carefully. This was Emily Prentiss, after all. Compartmentalizing extraordinaire, composed, strong, reliable, and determined to get the job done.

The last thing they expected from her was for her to automatically flinch at the sudden presences filling her room. Her breathing hitched for a moment while she tried to gather her scattered thoughts, her eyes flitting from person to person. Finally acknowledging her discomfort and chariness, the team stilled except for Garcia, who clung to the nearest life line, who happened to be Morgan.

Her voice was childish and hoarse when she managed to string together a coherent thought. "Is… is anybody going to hurt me?" Coughs overcame her for a few seconds, caused by the scratchiness in her throat. It was most definitely not from disuse.

"No, Emily," JJ soothed, feeling as if she were calming an infant, her heart breaking as she unconsciously gripped Reid's hand. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

Emily shook her head, her cleansed dark hair falling around her shoulders as she did so. "No… No, you were _there_," Emily recalled more to her herself than to them, a note of distress lacing her tone. Her eyes glazed over as her mind departed, going back to places none of them ever wanted to revisit so rapidly they had no time to prepare.

"You were _there!_" she emphasized, her voice raising an octave as her slender hands tightly clutched the thin white sheets.

"Emily—" Morgan tried to regain her attention and bring her back to reality, but she was too far gone.

"N…no! Garcia! Help! Stop hurting me! _He's going to hurt me! Stop it! Make it stop!_" she cried wildly, tears leaking out of her eyes now while she grappled with the sheets, futilely fending off an invisible assailant.

The team watched helplessly as her anguish escalated until she was screaming—astonishingly for Garcia—and for the pain to stop. Unable to resist any longer, Garcia surged forward and was at her bedside in a dizzying flash, her hands fluttering around Emily's bandaged arms, trying to find a place to hold her. As soon as she was able to get her arms around her shoulders, even loosely, Emily relaxed into her touch and just came to a standstill. She froze, swiftly falling back into actuality until she recognized the familiar embrace of Garcia, and not the fist or blade of Louis.

At this realization she leaned into her touch, trembling, breathing heavily, and dark eyes still glazed over. "He was there, Pen," she whimpered softly while the nurse checked in on them. "He was… he was hurting me. His… his knife," she fought back a sob, "It… it cut me… there was… blood. And they…" her voice was a whisper now as her nails dug into Garcia's flesh, but Garcia didn't care in the least. "They were there… and… and…" Her nails broke skin as agonizing flashbacks occupied her mind and Garcia took a seat and hugged her, waiting for her to come back to earth.

The team watched her reactions, shell shocked by her willingness to cling to someone who had participated in being unwelcome. Even Hotch was speechless, finding no words appropriate to describe the conflicting feelings bubbling inside. If possible, the team was even more unsure and agitated than they had been. A soft voice chimed from the door, "perhaps the rest of you should leave," the nurse suggested.

Figuring that was probably the best course of action and too shocked to really do anything else, they exited again, worried for what was to come. The sounds of Emily's wails and Garcia's shushing followed them out of the room.

The last thing they heard before disappearing down the hall was Emily's coarse voice. "I'm afraid, Pen."


	17. Chapter 17

**Short chapter, I'm really tired and I have a busy weekend ahead. Happy Cinco de Mayo! Also, for anyone who's interested in my affairs, the winners of the science fair (top three for each grade) will be announced next Thursday. A few people have mentioned that they'd like to see the team's individual reactions, so that begins here, and will stretch out through the next few chapters. I'm getting lots of really good ideas from the reviews; keep 'em coming! Thank you so much, all of you, and please continue to R&R :)**

* * *

"_As more information becomes available, and the magnitude of the storm's impact becomes even more apparent, it becomes clear that this recovery will be lengthy." –Jo Bonner_

* * *

The fractured team stumbled into a private waiting room only down the hall, in which they collapsed into the nearest chairs. The energy and eagerness for seeing Emily had dissipated in only moments, now that they had had insight as to what was going on in her traumatized head.

"She had a broken leg," Reid murmured, if awkwardly, examining his bony fingers.

"You could see a cast under there?" Morgan asked, curiosity breaking through the dismay.

"Not instantly," he responded. "I'm just looking back on it now."

That remotely made sense to Morgan. Reid, with his unique eidetic memory, would never forget that scene. He doubted he himself would be able to, either, but unlike Reid, he would simply be blessed with remembering the essence of it, the feelings stirring inside him, the words that were screaming in his ears. Reid would remember everything vividly, down to the last detail, such as the slight bulge in the sheets created from the bulk of the cast. Morgan was suddenly thankful that he didn't have a similar ability and therefore didn't have to be plagued with a constant, flawless snapshot of every moment of his life, good and bad alike, especially those of which permanently documented his close friend's pain.

Unfortunately, there were those recollections that would never be erased from even his inferior memory, or even so much as fade, blur at the edges, or tint with variables. Namely, those that he had acquired from the past week. Feeling his body instinctively tense up at just the thought, he reached his hand up to the back of his neck, trying to relax his stiff muscles. It was a large matter at hand, the elephant in the room, and possibly too overwhelming to try to conquer all at once, the memories of the past week. He wasn't exactly a compartmentalizing extraordinaire, like someone he knew. The most immediate matter was that of Emily's mental condition. Trying to weed through his thoughts, he attempted to scavenge for the ones pertaining to the biggest concern at hand.

He sorted through the memory of their short visit, bit by bit, playing it like a movie in slow motion. His eyebrows knit together as his hand moved around from the back of his neck to his forehead, rubbing his temples as he forced himself to remain composed and not react harshly. The first major event that came to mind, as brief as it was, was the split second where she automatically flinched. Their presence startled her, scared her even, and this bothered him. He wasn't great at psychoanalysis, but he had a sinking feeling that this may lead to a reoccurring problem.

The next part broke his heart with the pure… not innocence of it, but simplicity. It was so uncharacteristic for her to resort to such a childish nature that it unnerved him. If Emily couldn't keep it together and stay the strong person they all knew her to be… than how could he? The answer was straightforward; he could, because he had to, for Emily, his friend, the friend he was always proud of no matter what she did. All he needed to know was that they shared a friendship that ran deeply and couldn't be hindered by any obstacle, no matter how dramatic.

If only he had admitted that sooner.

His reminiscing was cut short by the loud crinkling of brown paper bags. Thankful for the distraction before he began bawling, he lifted his head from his hand and acknowledged Rossi, who was balancing two large brown bags in either of his hands.

"I thought I might find you here," he told them gently, setting the bags down on an empty chair and seating himself next to them.

"Good to see you, Dave," Hotch greeted evenly, almost absently. His mind was elsewhere, despite the diversion.

"Have you seen her yet?" he asked, emerging from the massive bag with another clear plastic bag of plain bagels.

The team hesitated in their response while Rossi went about passing out the makeshift breakfast, of which each team member regarded solemnly. When Rossi was crumpling up the bag, completely emptied of its contents, he detected the heavy silence surrounding him.

He raised a bushy eyebrow, "did I miss something?"

Reid broke the silence, though not in a direct answer. "There are multiple possibilities to justify her behavior," he mused, nervously picking at the bagel in his lap. "My best guess would be she either associates us with the pain, trauma, and other negative feelings she endured, meaning the sight of us would instantly trigger her memory, or she blames us for not being there to help her. Either likelihood would dignify what she meant by, 'They were there.' It would also explain why she clings to Garcia, since she wasn't there with us. Both outcomes are symptoms of PTSD." He gulped in a shaky breath that suggested he might burst into tears at any moment as the weight of his words settled.

"You're right," Hotch confirmed sullenly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Rossi slowly sat down again, armed with new comprehension, silently studying his team. As the magnitude of the situation sank in, just from Reid's oblique description, Rossi acquired the look of having aged twenty years in a much shorter span.

"That wasn't Emily in there," Morgan said, irritation palpable and his features melancholy. He shook his head. "Rossi, you didn't see," he went on, looking up at the older profiler, who met his gaze without fear of the emotions swirling inside the depths of his brown eyes. "She asked us if anyone was going to hurt her. That's not Emily."

JJ pushed a lock of blond hair out of her face, soft tears streaming down her cheeks from her red eyes. "What happened to her?" she asked of nobody in particular, her own voice cracking with uncertainty, apprehension and, most of all, anxiety.

"She died," Hotch supplied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was unfeasible to determine the inner workings of Hotch's mind when he went to such great lengths to assure that what was inside remained as such. Reid's, JJ's, Morgan's, and even Rossi's expressions displayed their dominant feelings, ones they could no longer cloak and no longer cared to. Hotch's face, on the other hand, seemed frozen in a state devoid of emotion and bursting with stress. Now inquisitiveness laced their appearances as they puzzled at Hotch, over Hotch, over why he would ever utter something so bleak, leaving no room for a bright side. _That _wasn't quite like him. But, then again, they were all acting atypically; why should Hotch be an exception? Truth be told, he cared just as much as they did if not more, but he felt obligated to be the team's rock. To absorb their worry and take it upon his own shoulders as his own burden as best he could, considering he was probably the best at keeping his overriding emotions hidden and his outward self impassive. Especially in desperate times like this, the team needed a voice of reason. He was eligible for the job and, from here on out, unofficially volunteering himself.

"No… no, she's alive in there… somewhere," JJ said irresolutely, swiping at a few stray tears on her chin, questioning the sincerity of her own words.

But God, if he wasn't scared out of his mind.


	18. Chapter 18

**Only four reviews! I'm hurt, guys! Thank you to those that did review, though. You guys make me happy. :) Happy early mother's day, and please, R&R!**

**By the way, am I the only one having fun with these quotes? ;)**

* * *

"_'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after." –William Shakespeare_

* * *

"Could you open the curtains, please?"

Garcia complied, relieved. As she drifted across the small private room to the plain white curtains obscuring their view of the outside world, she noted that Emily seemed to be more herself, with the exception of a bout of jitteriness. She had only relaxed once the team had disappeared from her line of sight and Garcia had reassured her that she was indeed in a hospital bed, but it seemed as if she quickly recovered and reverted to her otherwise typical self.

As she tugged the light curtains apart, she heard Emily sigh in contentment behind her. "So, the outside world does exist," she joked, settling back into a more lax position.

"It misses you, Em," Garcia played along, throwing a lipstick covered smirk over her shoulder before slowly pulling the rest of the curtain away.

Early morning sunlight filtered in through the wide panel of glass, bouncing off of the vibrant shades of green from the foliage. A few colorful flowers dotted the scene here and there, making the appearance more picturesque. Satisfied, Garcia turned to face her friend with a flourish that only she possessed.

"How do you feel?" she felt obligated to ask, reclaiming her seat by the bedside.

Emily's hands tensed slightly under the cover of the sheets, but she otherwise gave no visible reaction. "Tired. The pain meds are doing their job." She yawned on cue as if to justify her point, her hand swiftly moving up in order to catch the exhalation of breath in the crook of her elbow.

"I believe you," Garcia said lightheartedly. "But you know what I mean."

Emily's features twitched in discomfort while she attempted to shift her position as best she could with the weight of the cast on the entire length of her left leg and the tapings around her ribs. She winced a little as she aggravated the wounds, but grit her teeth to see it through, only to be rewarded with a little more circulation in her arms and legs than she had before.

"You're not avoiding this, you know," Garcia said, sympathy in her eyes and with the commanding voice of a concerned friend.

Emily sniffed, looking for something in reach to keep her suddenly antsy self occupied. Her deft hands located a dwindling thread, unraveled from the blankets, that sufficed. As she began to draw at it, appearing intently focused on the task at hand, she softly began a vague response.

"I'm not alright, Pen. I don't know what came over me." She gave a sharp jerk on the string, hearing the sound of tearing accompanying it and briefly being brought back to the moment Louis tore her shirt from her frail body.

She shuddered, taking a deep breath while Garcia waited patiently. "I just… I saw them, and I was back there, with Louis. It seems so irrational, but," she trailed off, unsure of how to best vocalize her thoughts. Garcia placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, which aided her focus.

"I guess you want to hear what happened, huh?"

"Not especially, but if it helps you, you know I'll do anything."

The honesty in her tone touched Emily, and she decided to bite back the anger burning her insides, at least for now.

"Okay." She twirled the string tightly around her lithe pointer finger, reveling in the slight pain. Anything to distract her from the images brewing in her mind. Her throat began to burn and clench. "We were clearing the house, and," here her memory was fuzzy, so she compensated for the lapse. "I don't remember, but something was wrong, and he found me. He hit me, with, uh, a hammer, I think. No, a crowbar. One helluva concussion."

"This guy is officially no longer a 'poor little nugget'," Garcia declared, earning a meek smile from Emily.

"When I woke up, all I remember is pain. Oh, and green." She puzzled over her own words for a moment, doing her best to properly give an accurate recounting. "Not like that," she gestured to the scenic shrubbery outside her window, "more dark, sinister."

Her regular breathing pattern picked up pace as the familiar fear and distress crept up her spine like a cold tendril. Garcia's hands instinctively found one of hers to anchor Emily to reality before she delved too far into her memories again. The tech goddess had already discerned the glassy quality in her large eyes.

"Thanks," she whispered breathily, letting Garcia know she was still there in the form of a tiny squeeze. "He ripped my shirt off," she said bluntly, finding it easier to face it head-on. "He wanted to know about the scar," she indicated her abdomen by tracing over the familiar line, covered by layers of fabric.

"I remember Hotch," she said distantly, narrowing her eyes a fraction. Her hand unexpectedly clasped Garcia's tightly as she inhaled a wobbly breath. "Oh my God, Hotch didn't hurt me, did he?" she blurted.

"No, no," Garcia instantly dispelled this notion before it went too far. "Hotch didn't hurt you, gumdrop. None of our friends did."

Emily looked uncertain but chose not to dwell on the matter anymore for the time being. "After that, constant pain. Everything always hurt. There was always blood, too," she added as an afterthought. "I'm pretty sure it was mine.

"He ripped off my pants," she recalled abruptly, her eyes sliding closed. Soon, her eyes were forcefully clenched closed, shut off to the world, trying to quell the pictures in their head.

"Shh, shh," Garcia hushed her, feeling the biting coldness of fear strike her chest. She was careful not to let Emily detect this, however, and hurriedly composed herself. Still, she couldn't help but worry incessantly about the particular events that took place without Emily's clothing covering her body.

When Emily still remained tensed, Garcia subtly reminded her of her presence by brushing a lock of dark hair from her forehead.

"He put his hand," she started, evidently remembering this bit distinctly, much to Garcia's dismay. "In…" she motioned towards the lower area of her body. "Twice." These incidents, among others, affected her deeply; Garcia could easily pick it out in her tone and her body language without ever having had training to analyze human behavior. The only verbal hint she received, however, was short: "It felt horrible, Pen. Disgusting, revolting."

Just the idea of his dirty hands touching places that he should have never touched had Garcia boiling. At least she had the consolation of knowing that it went no farther than that, and Emily wasn't violated as badly as she could have been. It came to her attention that it didn't make sense as to why Louis wouldn't go any farther and, judging Emily to make sure that she would be able to answer, gently inquired as best she could.

"Em, how come he didn't…?"

"Go any farther? I don't remember," she said quickly but truthfully, uncomfortable with the topic now. "What happened to Louis?"

Garcia blinked, stunned by the inquiry for only a moment before gathering her thoughts again. "U—um, I do believe Hotch killed him."

"Hotch?" she asked somewhat disbelievingly.

Garcia nodded when Emily cracked her eyes open to confirm the sincerity.

"Are you mad?" Garcia queried, changing the topic.

"Be more specific," Emily prompted, sorting through the list of complicated feelings.

"Are you mad at me? At Hotch? At the team?"

"I guess so," she shrugged.

"I acted like such a, pardon my language, bitch to you before and during this case. God, I'm so sorry, Em," she began to rant, trying to get all her thoughts out in one go. "You have no idea how guilty I feel for putting you through whatever it was that you went through. I have no idea what you went through, actually, but my behavior must not have helped you in the slightest. I should have been way more receptive to having you back." She was beginning to tear up, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "The truth is I missed you, Em. These past eight months have been hell on earth without you. And then just to suddenly have you back… None of that warrants my behavior towards you, though." She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Will you please forgive me, Em?" she pleaded, quietly sobbing as she furiously swiped at the tears running down her cheeks.

"I…" she steadied her own irregular breathing, "I'm going to try," she relented, not wanting to promise anything that she might not be able to fulfill.

"As for the team…" she bit her lower lip, "I'm not happy." She didn't elaborate any further, at a loss for words.

"I don't blame you," Garcia remarked softly, running her hand up and down Emily's arm in the most soothing manner possible.

Emily, whose eyes had now slid closed, was unwinding her stressed body, succumbing to the sleepiness fogging her mind and allowing herself to feel the placating warmth of Garcia's touch. The touch was welcome in the best way, after having endured only the brutal wrath of a vile man over the past week. It was lulling as well, helping her fall smoothly into awaiting sleep.

"I'm tired," she murmured, her fidgeting fingers slowly going slack as her body was overcome with the respite of slumber, if only temporarily. It was only a matter of time before she awoke screaming, trembling, crying, and wailing. Garcia resolved to be at her side when this occurred to coax her back into sleep with supportive words and pacifying touches that only a close friend could offer.

A flicker in her peripheral vision as Emily slipped away caused her to turn and curiously watch a colorful blue jay hopping around outside the window, pecking at the dirt and flicking its small, feathered head to and fro. It fluffed out its blue plumage and instantly smoothed it down again with its small head, repeating this action over and over until it was pleased. For a fleeting second after he lifted his head, his small, dark eyes met Garcia's admiring ones before letting out a chorus of chirps and taking flight, circling out of view until its song died in the wind and Garcia was left alone to wonder.


	19. Chapter 19

**Major thanks to **susannah2000 **for helping me with this chapter, and for all the helpful reviews that suggested JJ try to talk to Emily again. It was all really helpful! I hope you all had a wonderful mother's day, and have since forgiven me for my lack of recent updates. Having difficulties uploading and editing this chapter, so it will be redone sometime tomorrow for typos and formatting errors. I can't upload documents, so in order to get this chapter to you, I had to edit a previous document and copy-paste.  
**

** As usual, R&R!**

* * *

_"Our concern is to heal. Our concern is to bring together." –Harold Washington_

* * *

Mildly irritated, JJ reflected on why the hell she was currently walking down a desolate hallway with only the sound of her anxiously thrumming heart to keep her company. It hadn't been her choice, exactly, to be walking down these halls, only to likely cause her best friend even more pain. Of course she wanted to make sure her best friend was alright as she could get; nothing in the world was a more appealing prospect. It was just the backlash that she was more concerned with.

Somehow, this brought her right back to the point of how the hell she had been elected. About twenty minutes after Rossi returned, a doctor that only spoke in monotones, with a crop of withering gray hair and dreary, tired eyes, informed them of her condition. For the life of her, JJ couldn't recall the specifics of his lecture, not that she especially cared to. She did pick up on the important terms, though. These significant idioms happened to be, "blood loss, broken leg, broken rips, multiple lacerations, hypothermia, concussion, bruising, internal bleeding, dehydration, a miracle that she's still alive, not to mention awake and coherent, irrational or not." This, in retrospect, really didn't assist in relieving her of the gnawing concern, not that it was in the doctor's job description to soothe a distraught woman, of whom he had no personal connection with. In his place, JJ would feel similarly, she was sure.

Afterwards, the team had sat in a grim silence. The severity of the situation had been placed into medical terms. At least it couldn't have gotten any worse after that, right? The only problem they had to worry about now—and it was a large obstacle—was her mental state. They had only gleaned that she was showing early symptoms of PTSD and nothing further. Somehow, this equaled JJ being forcibly volunteered to check on the current occupants of the bleak hospital room. Something along the lines of, "if she responds to anyone positively from her ordeal, it's going to be a close feminine figure." Evidently, Garcia didn't fit the bill.

In some sense, she didn't resent getting handpicked, not at all. Like any other deeply worried friend, she wanted to be there for her, to support her and to calm her. She wanted to help in any way she could, and show how much she really cared for and loved Emily. Chalk it up to a natural maternal instinct, perhaps, the need to care for the sickly and injured, but either way, it didn't matter. JJ needed another visual confirmation that her best friend was indeed alive and hadn't passed on to the next world without her having been informed.

On the other hand, she was also somewhat reluctant to walk back into that hospital room, for fear of eliciting the same response, or a similar response, to the one that Emily had displayed earlier. Reid's explanation made sense, she supposed, but it didn't remedy the situation any. Those who suffered from PTSD, contracted from a traumatic event of some sort, often associated an object or a person with their tribulation. That object or person triggered harmful memories; those of such vividness that the victim was instantaneously brought back to the times in which they acquired those memories as if they were reliving them. To think that her own face could spark such a negative response was shattering on its own. Her expression should relay comfort and a reliable friendship, not torture and cruelty.

JJ had her mind set on reversing that as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, in spite of the fact that she hadn't expressed any anger thus far, there was also the possibility that she'd blame anyone who was in that cellar with her for her pain. This was a more illogical point of view, one that a child might have shared in. It pained JJ to realize that Emily's mental state had aspects in common with that of a susceptible, inexperienced child. How truly vulnerable had Emily been during that time to have been reduced to a whimpering shell? The answer was simply, extremely.

It took a lot to break Emily Prentiss, the strong woman the BAU team had come to know and love over the years (with a few exceptions). In fact, during their uninterrupted five years together, the team had come to know of no such circumstance that could really revert Emily to a state in need of repair. If something of the like had occurred during their time together, they had yet to be enlightened. Even at the hands of an UnSub, which Emily had been before, she had managed to escape with only nightmares and scars as lasting reminders, never an actual disorder. This definitely meant, even to JJ and Garcia's untrained eyes, that there had been something going on under that pallor face that had played a role in demeaning Emily to what she was now—broken. Needless to say, if this contributing factor was not physical, which the team would have noticed, that meant it was emotional.

JJ hadn't realized she had passed right by Emily's closed door until she nearly walked straight into the door at the end of the hall, towards the ER. She backtracked quickly, embarrassed, and made a beeline for the numbered door that Emily had come to possess. Nervously, she incessantly pushed locks of blond hair here and there out of her face, smooth down her already smooth clothing, readjust her jewelry. No amount of preparation would help her get through another encounter, even remotely akin to the one that had occurred previously. Hopefully, the reduced amount of people would keep her calm, but there were obviously no guarantees, nor would there be any time soon.

Her nerves relaxed some when she gently pushed open the door without so much as a creak, only to be greeted by Garcia's startled face, and not Emily's glassy, terrified one. She made a point to muffle the sound of the door closing behind her before turning back to Garcia, who was watching her curiously. Under her scrutiny JJ offered a sheepish shrug, accompanied by a small smile.

"She's asleep," Garcia whispered loudly enough for JJ to hear while she took a seat on Emily's other side, but not loudly enough to wake the slumbering inhabitant.

JJ nodded and couldn't resist casting her bedridden friend a glance. Her skin tone nearly matched that of the bed sheets, with the exception of the black stitches that ran along too many cuts to count. The majority of them, thankfully, were covered by the sheets that Emily was currently snugly hiding under, save her head and shoulders. JJ yearned to reach out and touch her, be sure that she really was there and offer some show of affection, but strongly opposed this notion. In her condition, JJ wouldn't really desire to be woken up by the object of your nightmares, either.

Seeing the look in her blue eyes, Garcia addressed her neutrally. "She won't stay that way for long. She has nightmares."

When JJ tore her eyes from her wounded friend to her vibrant friend, Garcia presented her with her own timid, if triumphant, smirk. "On the plane ride here, I bugged the doctors until they kept me regularly updated."

JJ smiled in approval, but, Garcia sourly noted, the sparkle didn't quite reach her eyes.

The duo remained in contemplative silence for a while, rarely ever sharing looks, their eyes preoccupied with the blessed rising and falling of Emily's chest. Partially reassured, JJ rattled off the list of ailments that the doctor had listed for them without ever moving her gaze. Only once she was finished did she dare to meet Garcia's gawking face, which was now a mix of horror and a new wave of apprehension and pity.

"Oh, gumdrop," she whispered wistfully, reaching her hand out as if to brush some stray hairs of Emily's aside but changing her mind at the last moment, slowly returning her hand to the armrest of her chair.

JJ found that there were a multitude of topics she wanted to discuss with Garcia, her livelier best friend, the oracle of wisdom. The majority of them comprised of the thoughts she had been dwelling on during her fateful journey to this very room. Others were smaller, maybe even insignificant; meaningless questions just to restore confidence in herself. Everyone needed to ask those trivial inquiries every now and then, no matter what the age or amount of life familiarity. There was one, at the tip of JJ's tongue, that was demanding to be vocalized, and so JJ complied hesitantly.

"Pen, why her?"

"I don't know, Jayje," was the sorrowful reply that she received. It did nothing to quell her insecurities.

Before she could ask another one, a flicker caught her attention. Turning her head, she watched as Emily stirred, faintly at first, tossing the sheets aside and switching positions. The movement might have passed as harmless, had it not been for the anguish that etched her once peaceful features and the trembling and quaking in her limbs.

"Stop hurting me," she murmured, too soft to detect any definite emotion in her tone. She shifted again, tossing a small pillow to the floor in the process, which Garcia hurriedly scooped up and used as a mask to cover her agape mouth, dismayed with the scene taking place in front of her. JJ would have shown sympathy to Garcia in the form of a gentle touch, had it not been for the unease and anxiety revisiting her own body.

Suddenly, her shaking limb freed itself from the constraints of the sheets, desperately clinging to what fabric remained on the bed. She scrunched the sheet in her fist to the point where her knuckles turned white and, had it not been for the barrier of the fabric, her nails would have broken the skin on her palm by now.

A scream tore from her chest, strangled and agonizing. Both women at her bedside flinched as if the wounds had been inflicted upon them. Tears leaked from the corners of Emily's closed eyelids, racing down her features, tight with alarm and fear. Her breathing had increased notably, now much heavier and much more rapid. Another scream escaped her and she tugged at the fabric balled in her fist until the sound of ripping cloth was emitted from it.

For some unknown reason, this awoke her. When her eyes flew open, they were wide, tinted with a fading glossy quality, and shedding pained tears. At first, she didn't even acknowledge the two people alongside her while she attempted to return her breathing to a normal, even pace along with her racing heartbeat. Her fingers slowly loosened around the wrinkled material until it sagged down to the bed again, freed from her death grip.

Reacquainted with her hospital room and her vitals back at a healthy place, she closed her eyes to rid herself of the last of the memories before opening them again. She saw Garcia first, which ignited a flash of relief in the dark browns of her eyes.

This was short-lived, however, as soon as her gaze swept away from Garcia and abruptly landed on JJ's frame. JJ remained as still as possible, like a deer caught in headlights, while Emily froze like a statue. It was difficult to deduce the emotions running through her eyes and etching her features.

Her eyes became unfocused, and both JJ and Garcia tensed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Please forgive me for my lapse—life got in the way. Grandmother's birthday, doctor's appointment, not to mention I'm sick. I had a bout of writer's block with this one, hence it's shorter length, and I rewrote it a few times, so tell me what you think. Lastly, major thanks to **littlegreenbottle **for the medical information regarding the law among other things, and I will fix the problem with the doctor actually breaking the law in the last chapter. In case any of you were actually concerned with the legal affairs of our depressing doctor. You will be hearing more about her medical condition, the full story, the doctor's excuse, etc. in the next few chapters. Anyhow, R&R!**

**Oh, quick note: in the latest episode, Out of the Light, the first quote was by Joseph Conrad. I used a quote by him in the 4th chapter, too. ;D  
**

* * *

"_All men and women have an equal need for love. When these needs are not fulfilled it is easy to have our feelings hurt, for which we blame our partner." –John Gray_

* * *

"You were there," Emily stated with a surprising serenity, although her eyes remained unfocused. None of the three moved for a few tense moments, with the exception of Emily's trembling returning with a vengeance.

"You were there," she repeated, her tone taking on a distinct note that JJ couldn't quite place. For a few seconds Emily frowned and tilted her head, visibly sorting her thoughts out and trying to piece together a sentence that wasn't just the verbalized version of the nonsensical workings of her mind; perhaps the last shred of rationality that she had left.

JJ was patient, as was Garcia, despite the fact that Emily no longer acknowledged the latter. If there was even the slightest of possibilities that Emily would react in much the same way she was speaking, that was to say calmly, it was progress, and the two women closest to her were willing to wait any length of time if it meant helping her heal. Perhaps Emily wasn't quite herself—not even remotely resembling herself while in JJ's presence, whoever "herself" was anymore—and that was still heartbreaking, but at least she wasn't suffering if she was deadpanning. JJ wasn't sure she could stand to see Emily experience any more.

"They hurt me," she murmured mostly to herself, almost too softly to catch. However, one would hear a pin drop in the edgy atmosphere, and it sounded loud and clear to the alert duo. "I did everything…"

Now she was being unclear, and Garcia shot JJ a subtle look that read, _"Do you know what she's talking about?"_

"_Not a clue,"_ JJ mouthed, and counted herself lucky when Emily didn't seem to notice. She was too far gone, and not even Garcia had a hope of anchoring her back to reality. The best they could do was quietly watch her illogical thoughts unfold and manifest themselves in an audible form.

"Do you know what I did?" her voice became unmistakably steely as her eyes smoldered. Then, she shook her head. "Of course you do. You're JJ." Under any other circumstances JJ would have sarcastically remarked with a smirk on Emily's fantastic memory, but she couldn't even think to do so now. All she could think to do was wonder and try to decipher what she meant, since she wasn't about to clarify. Obviously it meant something and made sense to a frazzled Emily, but it was coming out as ambiguous to her ears. She forced herself to wait and see.

Emily sighed, debating with herself as her body curled inwards. Her knees moved up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs in a very telltale arrangement. Quite frankly, JJ didn't need to have had training in the study of human behavior to recognize this as a basic and subconscious defensive position.

"But you still let me get hurt," Emily argued, as if JJ were partaking in conversation. JJ reasoned with herself to resist speaking for fear that it would set her off. There was no solid way of determining what factors would trigger her memory, and she sure as hell didn't want to find out.

"Why?" This time Emily sounded as if she expected an answer from JJ, even though her eyes were staring off into space with a flickering flame behind them. Garcia and JJ shared a quick look that spoke volumes; Garcia's concerned and uneasy appearance mirrored JJ's own perfectly.

Oblivious to the unspoken communication between the two, Emily remained in the same position, tremors unremittingly wracking her already delicate and weak frame.

"I was really upset," she began her confession, sounding impassive at first, but her voice rose an octave and her eyes sharpened to focus in the span of a second. "Over a lot of things for a long time."

She turned her head to set an unforgiving, resentful gaze on JJ, who felt pinned and more remorseful than she ever remembered being. "You made it worse," she accused vehemently, and JJ concurred that she had a valid, if mislead, point. JJ thought that maybe, perhaps she had partially figured out what she meant now, but only that.

"_You hurt me!_" she outright screamed, lashing out at JJ without any forewarning. Had Garcia not reacted as quickly as she had and sprung out of her seat to catch Emily's flying wrist with both hands, JJ would have taken a bruising (and, she decided, a deserved) hit. Without wasting time or further worsening an already dreadful situation, JJ hastily scrambled to her feet and attempted to staunch her emotions.

She walked backwards out of the room while Emily screamed allegations at her retreating figure, all the while Garcia exerting all her efforts in restraining a frantic and uncontrolled Emily. The last thing she heard before bolting down the hallway, bided tears streaming down her face, was Emily's reverberating screeching, "_It's your fault!_"

* * *

The words echoed in JJ's head as she burst into a mostly melancholy waiting room, devoid of any friendly faces save those of her team. She collapsed into the nearest chair, sobbing and curling into a position resembling the one Emily had pulled herself into moments before she lunged at her. It just so happened that Rossi was the fortunate one to be sitting adjacent to her and he halted in his debate over their friend's medical condition, instead opting for comforting his distraught friend and discovering what caused her to be so.

Rossi draped a supportive arm around her shuddering shoulders, hunched over while she cried her pains out into her sweater sleeve. The team watched her with varying degrees of discernible distress at her state of return, curious as to what could have caused it, but knowing better than to pry and demand answers instantly.

When she managed to stifle her weeping enough to get a thought out, she sniffled, "She… she…" her voice broke before she finished, prompting Rossi to squeeze her shoulder affectionately.

"It's alright," he did his best to soothe, rubbing her upper arm. "Do you want to tell us what happened?"

"I feel obligated to," she choked out, wiping away the tears still obscuring her vision with a dry patch of her sleeve. "You guys deserve to know." She took as deep a breath as she could without making her head spin and decided on how best to phrase her thoughts.

"She had a nightmare shortly after I entered," she reported, and judging by her tone, the worst was yet to come. "When she woke up, she turned to Garcia, and almost looked herself for a moment. Then she saw me and… she changed."

Reid muttered something about association, to which JJ and the rest of the team paid no special attention to. "What she said, and how she acted. It was so strange to see from her," she vented, "not like her at all. It scared me. She was looking off into space, and she was shaking. She told me I was there, like she did earlier. Except… except she blamed me for her pain."

Before anyone could interrupt, JJ frowned. "She was also saying something about doing everything… but I'm not sure what she meant by that."

Her words were greeted with silence for a few dismaying moments before Morgan addressed Reid. "I know you predicted this," he acknowledged him, "but I also know it hurts worse to actually see it." He directed his gaze notably at JJ, who had once again buried her face in her arms.

Her voice was muffled and cracking when she confessed, "I did everything I could to make her feel welcome… I should have done something more."

"Don't blame yourself," Morgan consoled her. "It was our fault. We were the ones that were unwelcome."

"Then if I can't blame myself, don't hold yourselves responsible, either. I didn't communicate with her frequently during her eight months away, but she tends to keep things hidden, even if it's not good for her. She refuses to let other people in."

"Are you saying she brought this upon herself?" Morgan questioned, harsher than he intended to.

"No… no, definitely not."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that this was just… an unfortunate timeline of events."

She appeared as if she meant to elaborate further, but she was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Garcia. She bustled into the waiting room in an explosion of color in an otherwise dreary scene, panting heavily with wide eyes.

"Penelope?" Hotch asked whilst raising his head from his hands, a bit taken aback by the blatant and palpable panic etched across her face. Then again, he couldn't say he was the only one.

She took a steadying breath. "The stitches came out."

She sank into the nearest chair in a manner resembling JJ's, bawling into Morgan's arm.


	21. Chapter 21

**Heehee, okay, I used the wonders of dictionary-dot-com for a lot of this. I have to say, it was awfully fun. I love expanding my vocabulary, since I find the English language to typically be a restriction when conveying thoughts and feelings in writing and speech. I'm sorry if it's a bit dense—hang in there.**

**In other news, I did not win the science fair, which I'm actually really upset about. Not to mention someone called me out on my poor basketball skills, when I was actually exerting myself and maybe allowing myself to think I was actually decent at **_**something.**_ **So much for self-confidence. I'll stick with writing.**

**Lastly, affairs that you may be concerned with: my grandmother is coming to visit for two weeks starting tomorrow, and let's just say I've been more preoccupied with electronics during her most recent visits (years ago). I'm paying more attention to her now ever since my only grandfather passed, and now she's the only grandparent I have left. Also, on Sunday I have a birthday party at Ride Playland. Busy busy. I also still have a goddamn cold, which is super annoying.**

**Onto the [relatively short] chapter! I've been receiving less reviews as of late; don't let me down! R&R!**

* * *

"_Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies." –Mother Teresa_

* * *

The once convivial master of all things technological was now emitting panicked hiccups as she strived to maintain a purchase on her unnecessary hysteria. Morgan dexterously descried her efforts and resolved to aid in abating her undesirable overreaction. He stroked her hair, whispering sweet nothings into the top of her colorful head. Her shuddering ceased as he continued to soothe her in the form of the touch she coveted, refastening her to the situation at hand: the team was clueless as to what exactly had occurred.

She inhaled a shaky gasp before lifting her head, her eyes red and bloodshot as she swatted away the remaining physical evidence of ever having cried. Unable to lock her gaze with that of any of her team member's analytical ones, she shifted hers to the waxy floors that provided her with a faint reflection.

"After Jayje left, she was still…" she searched for the proper word to best describe it adequately. "Having a fit," she stuttered hesitantly, "and when I couldn't restrain her anymore, she must have torn the stitches." She sucked in another unsteady breath through her mouth before continuing. "All of a sudden, I noticed the sheets were red. Bright red. When I looked up at her, she was… was totally covered… covered in blood." She whimpered, "how could she hurt herself like that? She didn't even notice. Didn't even care."

"I doubt she would have," Reid remarked, acting as delicately and sympathetically as he knew how. When it came to his social skills, there was constantly room for betterment. That said, the ones he did possess sufficed. "She was probably completely enveloped in her false reality."

"So she didn't hurt herself purposely?" Morgan inquired softly. Reid sighed and shook his head no, allowing his head to fall wearily into his hands as if it were suddenly too heavy for his neck to support solely.

"But she did…" JJ noted vaguely, "back with Louis. She never fought back or objected… she even volunteered herself. I think that's considered self harm."

"Why would she do that?" Rossi queried, choosing this moment to break the silence that shrouded him.

"We hurt her bad, man," Morgan mentioned. "We acted horribly towards her. We shouldn't have. We should have thought about her. We were only thinking of ourselves." Nobody corrected his statement, though it was greeted with silence for a few melancholy beats.

"Penelope," Hotch rumbled, his voice just deep enough to not be a whisper. His repetitive usage of her first name didn't evade anyone's notice. "You might want to wash your hands," he suggested.

Garcia only puzzled briefly before daring to glance down at her hands, comprehending the red stains that nearly camouflaged her hands. She squeaked a short "Oh," before bolting for the nearest ladies room, disappearing inside it but not without uttering another sob.

Seconds after the door closed behind her, JJ dejectedly murmured an excuse about talking to her before following her path, accompanying her in what was sure to be a very compact space. The four men decided to leave the two to their devices and address more legal matters, ones that didn't deal with the conflicting matters of the heart.

"Are you her MPOA?" Rossi asked, his question directed exclusively at a stoic Hotch, who merely shook his head in response.

"No," he answered, his tone relaying a hint of shared confusion.

"Is JJ?"

"I don't believe so."

Reid's brow furrowed and he raised his head to share a glance with his boss. "If that's the case, then that doctor broke federal law," he mused.

"Not unless Emily gave him permission," Morgan explained stiffly.

"Why would she do that?" Reid asked, genuine astonishment altering his expression.

"She might have had a moment of clarity," Hotch supplied, and his company could have sworn a flash of relief crossed his face at his own words.

"So, she does still care for us?" Morgan asked incredulously, as if the idea was unfathomable.

"It's possible," Reid affirmed, hope glittering in his eyes for the first time in over a week.

"There's just the obstacle of her associating us with her ordeal," Rossi reminded them sourly, not wanting his younger companions to get their hopes up, only to have them be dashed.

"If it is PTSD," Reid said, "she can get treated for it; even overcome it."

"As soon as the means are available to us, we'll set her up with a counselor back in Quantico," Hotch promised.

The doctor that had briefed them earlier unintentionally intruded on their conversation, simply by passing the waiting room during his stroll down the hall, clipboard in hand. Morgan requested him unapologetically, frankly unconcerned with whatever he was intent on reading on that damn clipboard of his. He glanced up and, evidently deciding he had a moment to spare, entered the waiting room and stepped over to their cluster.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Were you ever given direct permission to describe her ailments to us?" Hotch asked, intentionally giving his vocabulary a more professional air.

"I was," the doctor assured them, notwithstanding a slight delay, which the team chose to ignore. "By Agent Prentiss."

A nearby door audibly swung open, attracting their attentions. A distraught, but indubitably more lax Garcia exited, followed by an acutely sympathetic JJ. As soon as the two women acknowledged the gazes set on them, they donned inquisitive looks while they hastily claimed their seats once more.

"Welcome back. I was just informing your team that Agent Prentiss did indeed give me her consent to describe her condition to you."

The two nodded, and the doctor's gaze zeroed in on Garcia, distinguishing her as the woman two nurses had personally escorted out of the room while medical personnel worked to halt the flow of blood from Emily's reopened wounds.

"You'll be relieved to know she's been successfully re-stitched," he said evenly. "She did lose a bit of blood, but not enough to warrant an infusion." He dropped the clipboard to his side, indifferent to the object now. "I'm Doctor Kern. I work with Emily, although I'm not specifically her doctor. I only tell you this because I feel as if I'm about to delve into personal territory when I say I'm more interested in her mental status."

Reid consented and rattled off the details to him, summarizing as best as possible whilst leaving out as many personal or touchy components as he could. He started with the interactions between her and the team members after she returned—from what, he made sure to exclude among other things—and explained, perhaps more descriptively, what their week with Louis had consisted of. He finished with the confrontations that had occurred the previous night and only minutes ago, concluding with the massaging of his forehead with the tips of his bony fingers.

"I see," Doctor Kern said, genuine pity lacing his voice. "And I understand your occupation with the likelihood of PTSD. I wholeheartedly agree, despite the fact that PTSD cannot be accurately diagnosed until a month has passed of her exhibiting symptoms."

"When will she be discharged?" Rossi asked.

Doctor Kern lifted his clipboard to his face again, flipping through pages of text and formal writing until he came to one with the headline, "AGENT EMILY PRENTISS" bolded across the top. His eyes scrolled down the page until he read over the extent of her injuries.

"That depends on how long she wishes to stay," he said. "I'd say the earliest would be three days, preferably in a wheelchair, but she may be permitted to travel, albeit limitedly, with the use of crutches."

"Thank you, doctor," Morgan said, appearing as though he had a lot on his mind. The doctor offered a nod and a diminutive yet thoughtful smile before sauntering down the hall again, leaving the team to their own thoughts.


	22. Chapter 22

**A quick shout out to **I luv emily prentiss 2012, **who, get this, went and left **_**over ten… I lost count… **_**lovely reviews, and that was just on this story. Cracked me up, it did. Trust me, I read every review and I not love, but cherish every single one. Thank you to her for taking the time to review multiple individual chapters, A Thousand Cranes, and my poor neglected NCIS fic. It sincerely meant a lot. Lastly, sorry for the delay, busy busy, and got more than enough problems going on with my grandmother being here. It's not her fault—we have three cats, all of whom hate each other, and a dog stuck in this house. Oi.**

**If you're interested, my grandmother brought her cat, Toby, and my aunt's cat, Ollie (since my aunt went away). As it turned out, Ollie became afraid of his own shadow, so with no exaggeration, he's been sitting in a closet for two or three days straight now. Toby hates my dog, Sam, and has been hissing at him and intimidating him at every chance he gets. My dog's tried to hide in corners multiple times. As if we didn't have enough, I missed my cat Thirza too much, so she's here now too, and giving Toby a run for his money. She's dominating the house now after attacking Toby, who accidentally bit my grandmother after being spooked by my dog. As if this wasn't all enough, my aunt's dog may be joining us soon, too! This place is being overrun!**

**R&R!**

* * *

"_Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material." –F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

"You know, I might chase bad guys for a living, but I'm not Morgan," Rossi complained lightheartedly as he struggled to push the wheelchair up the ramp, towards the waiting plane.

Morgan popped his head out of the entrance to the plane. "I heard that," he commented. "Would you rather throw everyone's stuff into the plane?" When Rossi faked a grumble of defeat Morgan smirked and retreated into the belly of the plane, Hotch racing ahead of Rossi and Emily in order to offer assistance.

Over his shoulder, Hotch called to Rossi, "Dave, enlist Reid's assistance. I'm sure he'd love to help." He flashed his famous but scarcely ever viewed dimples before he too receded into the plane.

"Reid—" Rossi began to holler, honestly completely clueless as to Reid's location, only to be cut off by the swift appearance of the lanky genius. He quickly stepped over to allow Reid to take one of the handles to the wheelchair and soon Rossi's load had lightened considerably.

"They say two heads are better than one," Reid mused, casing a ghosting smile at Rossi as the two worked to push the wheelchair on the upward ramp.

"Don't hurt her, you two!" JJ's voice came from somewhere below them, interrupting her conversation with their old friend Officer McKenley.

"What she said!" Garcia echoed, her voice mostly playful with an undertone of a serious warning, not to mention concern.

"Don't worry, she can't feel anything!" Reid reassured them, unsure if they even heard him or not.

Rossi's mood swiftly turned dismal as his attention became directed at the woman unwillingly slumped over in the wheelchair, the growing frown on his face to prove his dislike for the situation. Reid discerned his attitude adjustment and his smile faded, his eyes flicking to her dark head before settling on Rossi once more.

"Did they have to sedate her?" Rossi murmured, more to himself than anything.

"She could have injured herself further if we allowed her to be cognizant during the ride back," Reid reminded him gently, but loathing the conditions just as much as he did.

Rossi shook his head, trying to regain his figurative footing. "That doesn't mean I have to like it," he responded softly, just as the wheelchair wheeled itself onto the flat carpeting of the plane.

Bright sunlight filtered in through the thick glass panes of the windows, illuminating the interior of the private jet. Outside, the blue sky was cloudless, but the wind was substantially chilly, enough to require coats and, for those who had them, gloves, hats, and scarves.

Rossi grunted as the wheelchair rolled onto a flat surface, allowing him to release his grip and stretch his back out with a pop. Under other circumstances Reid might have smirked at him, but his expression remained dismayed as he contemplated his vulnerable friend.

"Should we move her?" Rossi inquired.

"She's going to wake up halfway through the ride. I wouldn't want to wake up in a wheelchair."

"I second that," Rossi murmured, swiveling the chair in the direction of the couches that Emily usually occupied. With Reid's admittedly minimal assistance, the two carefully adjusted her so that she was lying on her back on the beige leather. Once settled, the wheelchair was cast off to the side and forgotten about as soon as humanly possible (with the exception of Reid).

Their job completed for now, the two sank into some soft chairs in the cluster next to Emily so that they could observe her during the ride but stay out of her way. Finally given a few moments to breathe while the rest of the team labored, they found themselves reflecting upon the previous four days.

Four days ago, JJ had attempted to elicit a positive reaction from Emily with her appearance, but had the adverse affect. That had also been the day when they discussed Emily's supposed moment of clarity, and when the doctor had conversed with them briefly. As it turned out, Emily's liberation from the confines of the sterile hospital took an extra day due to her own reluctance and agitation, which in turn risked further injury.

The four days traipsed with little to no progression when it came to Emily's mental state. Physically, she was on the road to recovery, albeit a very painful road. Her wounds still aggravated her with every movement she made according to Garcia and, unlike she would have before, she didn't bother to harbor her distress. The vocalization of her anguish was the one part that the team could witness for themselves. She'd cry out, beg, and plead for it to stop, all to no avail. None of this ailed the team's still aching consciences.

Out of all of them, JJ's guilt was the most straightforward, and, one might say, foolish. JJ had made the strongest effort out of all of them to welcome Emily back and try to shield her from the implications her return would have, but, according to JJ, she had ultimately failed. Members of the team would occasionally catch her muttering to herself when she thought nobody could hear, or when she was off in her own world, about why couldn't she have done more, why it couldn't have been her, why she hadn't done things differently. The team was hesitant about to console her, and why not, because none of them shared remotely similar feelings.

JJ suffered independently behind her crystal blue eyes, but the team recognized the signs. As if they didn't have enough to feel remorseful for, they felt ashamed for JJ's own anguish. The truth was that she had done everything in her power, and had it not been for them, she would have been successful in her endeavors. Not only had they managed to cause one of their closest friend's immeasurable pains, both physically and mentally, but they had inadvertently harmed another friend. The path of destruction seemed endless.

As for the rest of them, they spent the majority of their time moping and berating themselves. Had it not been for the solemn particulars, a group of FBI agents spending days on end sulking might have appeared comical to an onlooker, but it was candidly anything but. They were hurting badly, a heavy weight knotting in their chests as they relived her agonized screams and heartbreaking prayers. They could have never imagined that Emily, the woman they once knew, could be resorted to that state, but the impossible had happened. Just like the living dead existed. She was a changed person, they knew, but from what, they could no longer be sure. They couldn't entirely credit her adjustments to Ian Doyle, but according to Reid's incessant post traumatic stress disorder facts, the damage could be reversed yet. They held out on the shred of hope.

Breaking them out of their thoughts was JJ bustling onto the plane, her cheeks flushed as she rubbed her gloved hands together. "Whew, it's cold out," she announced, her voice lacking the enthusiastic spark it once had. Who were they kidding; they were all missing something here and there.

Garcia followed shortly behind her, clutching the tie-dye silk scarf around her neck closer. "How can it be so sunny and so cold?" she complained to nobody in particular, skittering over to a seat around the small table and curling into herself as best she could in order to preserve what scraps of body heat still lingered. JJ soon accompanied her after casting a glance at Reid, who had taken to staring absently out the window, and then reassuring herself—although of what she was no longer certain—by giving Emily a long look.

The arrival of the two women seemed to be the cue for Morgan and Hotch to join them as well. Shortly after JJ embraced Garcia in order to share warmth, the two men emerged from the back of the plane after having stored all the go-bags in the overhead compartments. For all the diminutive distance between the duo and the rest of the team, they might as well have been in another enclosure entirely.

"What on earth did you bring with you, baby girl?" Morgan jokingly asked of Garcia, settling himself into a nearby cluster of seats while Hotch volunteered himself to sit across from a slumbering Emily. Nobody missed the lengthy look that Hotch directed at her in spite of the banter going on around him, full of mingling emotions that not even the most seasoned of profilers could hope to distinguish.

"You don't want to know," Garcia winked blithely, tugging her scarf away from her neck as the door to the plane was closed.

"Nothing dirty, I hope," Morgan responded, simpering suggestively.

"No fair, you know me too well," she said, unable to resist the smile that crept onto her face as she yanked her fuzzy blue gloves off. JJ quickly followed suit, stripping herself of the unnecessary outerwear now that they were comfortably situated in the jet and tossing the articles over the back of her chair.

The plane jolted as it began rolling along the runway, moving sluggishly at first and rapidly gaining speed as it took to the air, gracefully ascending into the skies. Nobody could say that they hadn't been thoughtfully watching Emily as she slept on while the plane departed the place of their combined nightmares.


	23. Chapter 23

**Short chapter here, and a few notes. One, school's really busy right now, so chapters will be infrequent and irregular. Two, I tried again with the vocabulary (in fact, I had previous knowledge of all words used in this chapter) so let me know how I did. Three, I finished the one-shot for my 100****th**** review; it's called "**I Need a Doctor**." Four, relatively short and uneventful chapter here, but I felt as if you guys deserved an update. It's also of lesser quality, but that's because I put less effort into it for a multitude of reasons (time, motivation, inspiration). Five, you've all probably heard, but the pilot that Paget Brewster filmed got passed on, and it's looking like she'll be returning to Criminal Minds! :D Six, I came up with a new idea for my next fic, which may begin before this one concludes. It will be called "**Saving Two Lives With One Team**". I already have the plot and extended summary jotted down.**

**Finally, R&R!**

* * *

"_We will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." –Martin Luther King Jr._

* * *

The plane ride, up 'till about three fourths of the way there, consisted of banter and joking. Although, nobody could deny that there was a sense of tension in everything they said and did. Rossi went to the bathroom and cast a still sleeping Emily yet another remorseful look. Hotch, while looking over the copies of the paperwork that the NYPD sent him off with, incessantly looked up at Emily across from him with slightly furtive, unreadable glances. JJ and Garcia were both constantly checking to see if she had awoken yet without a fuss. Morgan was flexing his hands and looking sorry for himself, and Reid kept stuttering in his attempts not to go off on a tangent as he seemed to have a bad habit of doing when agitated.

When he saw Emily shift in her seat, Hotch was just about to advise them to shut the hell up or he'd do it for them, in so many words of course. When pain and fear flicked across her features he visibly became uneasy and abnormally assertive, even for him.

"Guys, please be qui—"

The warning came too late. She let out a shrill yelp and struggled against the lingering effects of sedation, effectively alerting the team. Reid paused midsentence and appeared almost disoriented until his mind, unusually foggy and lethargic today, caught up with his eyes. Garcia and JJ simultaneously drew closer to one another for a source of comfort, both knowing what this meant after having seen the outcome, one of their hands finding the other's and clasping together so tightly to the point where they were practically fused together. Rossi and Morgan shared a look in which they attempted to prepare themselves and force their unwilling logicality to figure out how to resolve this before it became too messy.

She screamed bloody murder again, to the point where Rossi silently dismissed himself to reassure the pilot. Her screams finally cut off when her throat could no longer produce the sound, and as she choked, her eyes flew open. Violent coughs overcoming her body, she leaned forward, desperately trying to catch her breath. As soon as she recovered enough to sit up, she fell back into her chair and found herself looking directly into Louis'…

…brown, dispassionate with a hint of apprehensive eyes.

Obvious confusion dawned on her, conflict raging behind her own brown eyes as her mind tried to make sense of this. These eyes were unfamiliar yet familiar, and very unlike the green ones that had been tormenting her for about a week and a half now. Hotch patiently waited for her response, putting a great deal of exertion into maintaining his guise for Emily's sake. It was a small relief that she was responding differently than she had with JJ, the last time any of the team had seen her.

"You're… not…" she finally murmured, her voice scratchy and quiet. "Your eyes are brown," she noted. Hotch gave minuscule nod of affirmation, which Emily miraculously acknowledged, in spite of the fact that he didn't immediately see the significance in his eye color. "So… you're not… Louis." Something clicked for her, and she looked at Hotch with a new sense of comprehension (of which Hotch shared in for a separate reason), but with a large amount of distress remaining.

Since it seemed that she was fixated with Hotch, and interested in him only, he was the one to risk conversing while the team observed in silent curiosity (with the exception of Rossi). "I'm not going to hurt you, Emily."

"But… Hotch, I remember… you and pain."

"That's all you remember?"

"No… no, there's something else," she mused, the beginnings of irritation leaking into her tone. "But… I don't…" Her eyes suddenly widened.

"He… he was hurting me," she recalled softly, her eyes becoming misty and far-off. "Pain… he was hurting me. Blood."

The team, allowing her to go at her own pace, offered no assistance. "And… and I was… alone. But you… you were there," she said, the repetitive phrase triggering a collective agitation to sweep throughout the group. However, instead of screaming, crying, accusing, and/or altogether throwing a fit, she went on calmly. "You were there and… you were warm. Comforting. There."

When she paused, as though finished with her recollection, Hotch thought to reassure her, only to be interrupted. "But, you weren't there before. Why… why?" she asked him, her eyes abruptly sharpening and focusing intently on him.

Hotch fought the automatic temptation to recoil from her cuspate look and instead answered without a hint of hesitation or indecisiveness. "Because," he felt as though he could be explaining to a toddler that spoke with a much more expansive vocabulary of which he intentionally took advantage of, "I deeply regretted my previous childish behavior towards you. When you sought my succor, I couldn't resist consenting. I apologize."

She contemplated this for a few agonizingly lengthy moments, sifting through his words, seeking proof. Just when Hotch had convinced himself that he had made some leeway, her thoughtful eyes swiftly transitioned into horrified ones. Given no time to brace himself he, along with the remainder of the team sans Rossi, listened to her rapidly escalating panic.

"But then he… he came back and he… he took you—no, me—away… he took me away!" she cried, the frighteningly glassy quality returning. "He took me away from you! He hurt me! _He hurt me!_"

Her voice failed her and she choked until blood trickled out of her mouth in a slow stream. As soon as Reid's acute gaze pinpointed the red streak, he leapt into action.

"She's coughing up blood," he reported hurriedly. "Morgan, do you have the extra sedative Kern provided us with?"

"One step ahead of you," Morgan said, emerging from the go-bag he had placed at his feet with a small syringe, filled with the sedative. Reid caught it, surprisingly without any difficulty. He looked down at it briefly before turning towards Hotch and Rossi, the latter of whom had just made his entrance.

"Can the two of you hold her down while I administer this?" he asked reluctantly, and although both men displayed a similar feeling, they complied without hurting her further in spite of her terrified wails.

Reid wasted no time in injecting her with the sedatives. Once the syringe emptied the three stepped back and watched as the drugs instantly took effect, slowly dragging her down into sleep again. The trio returned to their seats, looking defeated.

"She's remembering more," Reid pointed out.

"What difference does that make?" Garcia whimpered.

"I believe that once she can fully remember the event, she can begin to deal with it," Reid responded. "It seems as though she remembers the time she spent with Hotch, but with that, she remembers Louis prying her off and beating her into unconsciousness."

The team winced at his bluntness, and he muttered an apology.

"I think you're right, kid," Morgan commented, resting his head in his hands. "I think you're right."


	24. Chapter 24

**Sorry for the long update, and relatively uneventful chapter. Busy busy last week of school, but I get out next week, so yay! Wednesday (tomorrow) is my last day of classes, though. I have an essay due then. And I had two quizzes today. Anyhow. Onto the chapter. By the way, if you like this story, I hope you're reading **Saving Two Lives With One Team**, though it's a more H/P inclined story as it turned out.**

**By the way, I now permit anonymous reviews, in case any of you without an account were dying to review ;)**

**R&R!**

* * *

"_You don't repair that relationship by sitting down and talking about trust or making promises. Actually, what rebuilds it is living it and doing things differently - and I think that is what is going to make the difference." –Patricia Hewitt_

* * *

"You're shaking." The therapist peered at her from under thin reading glasses before quickly scribbling a note on the yellow pad of paper in her lap.

"I can't help it," was the defeated response, reflected in the ghastly face that the voice came from.

"Why?" the doctor pried.

"I'm afraid," she admitted.

"Of?"

"…Pain. Hurt. Screaming. Blood. Scars. Green," she listed, sounding feeble.

"Green?" the doctor inquired curiously.

"His eyes were green," she explained, feeling safer providing the doctor with a fact that could be confirmed, not one that could be swayed or uncertain at times.

"He's dead. Your boss, Hotch, killed him," the doctor reminded her patient gently.

"I know… but they were there. I can't explain it. I see them and I see him. I feel the pain again as if it were fresh. I hear my screams, feel my panic, and I'm suddenly back there, reliving it all. Besides, they hurt me, too." She was unsure now, and this didn't go unnoticed by the doctor.

"How so?" However, she was in dangerous, unexplored territory now, and as a therapist it was her duty to take the risk.

"I tried to be impassive. Let them forgive at their own pace. But… I guess it had a bigger effect on me than I meant for it to. I… had a hard time during the past eight months, and once I returned and the one group of people I thought I could rely on weren't there for me, I felt terribly alone. I felt abandoned. Again. Left to fend for myself. Unloved. Hated. Regretted."

"Is that how they hurt you?"

"No… No, I volunteered myself," she confessed somewhat reluctantly, but not at all remorsefully.

"Why was that?" The doctor remained neutral, looking objectively at the situation and not letting her own feelings be another problem for her already troubled companion.

"I felt as though I deserved it. I still feel as though I don't deserve to be alive." Her voice rose and cracked with unshed tears at the end.

"Of course you do," the doctor reassured nearly automatically.

"Glad someone thinks so," she said bitterly, obviously realizing that the doctor's comment held little to no genuine meaning specific to her.

"Something else is bothering you," the doctor noted perceptively.

"…yes." There was no point in arguing with a statement that the doctor was sure of, not to mention correct in.

"You look exhausted." The doctor tried getting through to her from another angle.

"I am." This was comfortable for her to say. This was easy. This wasn't complicated. The bags under her eyes, her jittery movements, her constant, rapid blinking were all blatant indications. Besides, there was no good reason to hide it.

"Why?"

"I haven't slept," she said naturally; she could have been discussing a sports game.

"Why is that?"

"Nightmares. Constant fear." She was wavering again, but the doctor was not about to back off.

"…but that's not what's bothering you." Another acute observation.

"I can't take this," she affirmed, clutching her frail knees closer to her equally frail chest tighter than she had been since sitting down, if this were possible.

"Take what?"

"This pain and fear. At least I used to be able to tolerate being around my team, depressed as I was. But now… now I acquaint them with fear. Whenever I see them, I feel pain, alarm, panic. I don't know how to explain it." Her breathing picked up in pace.

"I understand." Unfortunately, the good doctor did; she had seen an abundance of similar attitudes, and therefore one more case along the same lines was not unfamiliar.

"No," she insisted. "It's driving me insane. I can't do anything I used to. I can't be home alone. I can't be around more than one or two other people. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I'm in a constant state of fear, and I question how much longer I can take it before I finally… break." Any lingering energy seemed to leave her in a rush, leaving her with an even more hollow appearance.

"Emily, I'm going to ask you a question, and I'd like you to answer honestly. It stays between us, I promise, alright?"

"…okay, I'll try." It was just a question. How difficult could it be? There were answers to every question, just as there was a day for every night, even though one might seem far away.

"Have you considered suicide?" she asked rather bluntly, knowing fairly well that Emily was sound in the answer she was yet to provide.

"Yes," she said unapologetically, as though it were common knowledge.

"Have you tried?"

"No." She sounded afflicted.

"Were you going to?"

"…I still plan to." Her voice was just an octave above a whisper, but she was unwavering in her answer.

"Is your team aware of your depression?"

"If they are, it's not because I told them. They were busy. They have lives of their own, and they didn't include me. The last thing they would want to be bothered with is my problems." This was a woman that was not going to be swayed.

"Emily, they don't think that," the doctor tried anyway, only to have her attempts dashed.

"Don't try to make me reconsider. They hurt me. Now it's up to me whether or not I want to forgive them. And right now, I don't. They caused me to want to commit suicide, to feel this constant pain and fear that will never go away no matter what I do. Have I mentioned my wounds still hurt? The stitches pull when I scream at night. My throat burns _from _screaming. My lungs sting when I breathe too hard. My head spins whenever panic wells in my chest. _I. Cannot. Take. It! It is all. Their. Faults!_" The symptoms she had described were becoming vivid as they descended upon her, raising her voice and causing her eyes to widen and her bony fingers press into the pale flesh of her arms.

"Okay, okay, calm down Emily, it's just me. It's just me, Dr. Litten," she said, her tone sympathetic and compassionate.

"They hurt me," she persisted, although she sounded calmer than she had.

"Agent Hotchner killed Louis for you," the doctor recalled.

"…after I was hurt." She needed an excuse to justify everything the team had done for her. She refused to forgive them, after everything.

"He saved your life. He administered CPR."

"Automatic reaction. It wasn't personal."

"The whole team made the hospital waiting room their temporary home."

"As soon as I got out of the hospital, they could go home. Forget about me." These covers were getting easier, once she was on steady ground again.

"They've all confided in me how sorry they feel, to say the least. Your friends, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and Spencer Reid came in here crying rivers. I thought I saw some tears in David Rossi's eyes, too. Aaron Hotchner and Derek Morgan couldn't look at me."

"They're fake. They're tricking you. Don't you see? It's all a lie. They don't care. They don't love me. They hate me. They want me gone. They hurt me. I don't want them to do that again. They just want to hurt me. That's all they want…" Now she was trying to convince herself as well.

"Shh, Emily. It's okay. Why do you cling to your friend, Penelope?" An abrupt change of topic might help.

"She's not my friend," she corrected instantaneously.

"Okay," she accepted without dispute, "why do you cling to her?" she reiterated.

"I don't know. When I see her, I still know she hurt me, I still remember what she said. Her words on the plane to New York are forever imprinted in my head. They echo and I will never forget them. But… but when I see her, I can see her without associating her with pain. Memories of Lou—him, don't bother me. I can look at her without old wounds reopening," she reflected thoughtfully, trying to decipher why exactly it was that Garcia's presence was manageable, more so than anyone else on the team.

"I see. You're aware that you're likely going to be diagnosed with—"

She interrupted knowingly, with a hint of irritation, "PTSD. I know."

"You won't be able to return to the BAU, at least for now."

"I know. I'm too crazy," she said spitefully.

"You're not 'crazy,' as you put it. You're emotionally unstable, and that's alright. It can happen to anyone." The attempt at consolation was futile.

"That seems pretty mild when describing me," she commented sourly.

"It's true. Would it give you any comfort knowing that other people have gone through what you have and come out smiling?"

"No. Because now I'm experiencing it. It's different."

"I see. Well, you appear pretty agitated right now. I'm going to let you go for today. You know the drill—call me if you need me, if you feel the need to hurt yourself in any way, and I'll be here. In the meantime, try to heal, but don't make yourself numb. Deal with it. Process it. It will get better. Take your medicine."

"Easier said than done." A changed woman carefully unfurled herself from her drawn, defensive position, her expression as unreadable as she could possibly force it to be. The doctor, her small reading glasses perched professionally on the bridge of her nose, her light brown curly hair falling around her cheeks in waves, her dark brown eyes never leaving her patient's trembling figure, contemplated the broken woman as she brusquely exited the small room. It was a struggle for the doctor to maintain her detached atmosphere; she could only wonder what her teammates were dealing with internally, the thoughts they would never reveal, and was very relieved that she was not directly involved.


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for the slow updates! Yes, I'm out for summer, but having an unbelievably busy schedule. I'd go into detail, but it's a **_**lot. **_**My friends are all going away for camp, so they're all trying to cram in as much social time as possible before that happens. And hey, who am I, a lowly computer nerd, to complain? Thank you for the constant reviews, they make me happy, and feel free to send me a PM now and then—I do love chatting! :D**

**Since its personal now, and I'm still thrilled, I'll let you all know I got a new phone today and I **_**adore **_**it. I'm still gushing over it. T-Mobile HTC Sensation 4G. It came out today, too. And, I got 65/65 on our last history essay, 32/31 on our last history quiz, and 207/201 on our last English essay. I'm such a bragger. Anyhow. I'm also warning you this chapter HAS NOT BEEN EDITED, because I have absolutely zero time, and the writing is a little less strong then you're probably used to seeing from me.**

**Lastly. The quote is a bit vague. Hell, I'm not even completely sure how it refers to this chapter, but I feel a connection somehow (and I'm still working on it). I'd love to hear how you guys interpret it.**

**R&R!**

"_What's the classical moment that every actor or actress deals with? A tragic thing. They get that blank, faraway look in their eyes. But in life, it's not that way." –Skeet Ulrich_

As soon as the door shut behind her, she felt the nagging aching in her leg, swathed up in light bandages and covered by a black walking boot. Whimpering quietly, she let herself lean against the wall and allowed her eyes to sweep across it as it went farther down, becoming a hallway that she was alone in. The fine hairs on the back of her neck began to rise with apprehension, as though something were going to pop out and attack her at any moment.

Just for good measure, she whirled around, only to confirm more emptiness.

She sighed, limping down the hallway towards the lobby of the small building. That feeling that something was going to hurt her or take her by surprise was a familiar one as of late. Ever since the team had gotten back from New York two weeks ago and she had managed to hole herself up in her own home (although, Penelope had managed to sneak into the equation), those spooks had been occurring frequently and expectantly. Still, she hadn't quite learned how to shake, dismiss, or ignore the feeling. There was always that admittedly diminutive chance that something _was _there, and that something _was _going to happen, and what would happen if she finally chose to ignore it when there really was something there? _It _would happen all over again.

She'd never recover from this nightmare.

"How'd it go, gumdrop?"

She was shaken from her dreary thoughts by the positive voice of Penelope. As though it could control her, her body posture lifted a bit as if to welcome her. However, not even a polite smile could plant itself on Emily's face. Nobody had seen a smile out of her except for Penelope, who had last seen it a little over two weeks ago in the hospital.

"Hey, Penelope." She limped over to Penelope, stumbling a few times before she managed to reach her. When she did, Penelope handed her the metal crutches that she regarded with bleak acceptance as she lodged them uncomfortably under her arms.

"I still don't understand how you manage to walk with those," Penelope noted, watching in fascination as Emily swiftly glided forward by propelling herself with one foot and both crutches.

"You get used to it, I guess," Emily remarked halfheartedly as the duo exited the small building.

"Emily?" Penelope asked tentatively. "How _did _it go?" She reiterated, realizing Emily had effectively managed to dodge the question. Penelope had most definitely grown a soft spot for her. If it were anyone else, she would have pried a reluctant answer out of them with methods of force if she had to. With Emily, not anymore; she was allowed to evade some questions, some of the time. Although, she didn't want to talk much in the first place.

Emily sighed in response, thinking her answer through as Penelope gently took her crutches for her so she could situate herself in the passenger seat of Penelope's car. Once Penelope settled in and started the car on the way back to Emily's house, Emily managed to come up with an answer.

"Penelope?" she asked, her attention leveled on the blurred scenery passing them by.

"Yes, gumdrop?" She purposely included the nickname. Even if she wasn't a profiler, she was sure such a thing would alleviate any hesitation or detachment lingering in Emily.

Whether it had the desired effect or not she couldn't be sure; Emily had quickly adapted. She no longer permitted herself to give away any hint of emotion, apart from the overwhelming ones of despair and loneliness. Penelope hadn't yet witnessed the insanity Emily had described to her doctor—she had only seen the side effects. She observed the bags under her eyes, the pale complexion, the jittery behavior. These were things Emily didn't mask.

"Do you remember in the hospital that first day when you came to visit me?"

Penelope chanced a flitting look at her, only to see her unmoving. Focusing on the road in front of her again, she replied unsurely, "how could I forget, why?"

"You… apologized to me. Did you mean it?"

"Of course I did, gumdrop!" She bit back an addition of, _how could you think I didn't_.

"I never forgave you," she stated bluntly, and although Penelope had expected so, she still felt a pang of hurt. How could she not?

"I know," she whispered in the sudden thick silence of the car, tilting the wheel to take the correct exit.

"Do you still mean it?"

"Every word."

Her voice cracked, and Penelope realized with great astonishment that she was crying, the first show of emotion she'd had in weeks. "I don't believe you."

Penelope could imagine the soft tears trickling down her pallor face and her heart shattered a fraction more.

"Penelope," Emily began, mustering up all confidence she had. What did she have to lose? "She asked me if I was considering suicide," she confessed, swatting at the tears.

Stunned, Penelope stuttered, "w-what did you s-say?"

"Yes," was her soft response, pushing Penelope into such a state of shock that she became numb. She no longer felt the leather under her fingertips, or the fear clawing at her chest, or the bubbly hair ties holding her pigtails together bouncing against her neck. Somewhere, she was silently thankful that she had long since pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Emily's small apartment building.

As though she were a robot, she unlocked the doors and reached over to open her own. Once standing, she saw but didn't understand the various cars scattered around the parking lot, not even the all familiar black SUV. Evidently, neither did Emily, who was currently scrambling to grasp the crutches Penelope had forgotten.

Once as comfortable as one could be with metal supports under their arms, she started towards the building, beckoning for Penelope to join her. Slowly beginning to process, Penelope trailed after her, her eyes glued to the ground underneath her feet.

She never acknowledged entering the building, stepping into the elevator, reaching the hallway, or stepping to Emily's door. What finally startled her out of her trance were dark loafers. Men's loafers, guarding Emily's door. Apparently, they had halted Emily in her tracks, too, because she was somewhere down the hall behind her. She had noticed before Penelope did.

When Penelope dragged her gaze up to scan the man from toe to head as the case may be, her foggy mind clicked in recognition. A solemn, mostly unreadable face looked down at her, tinted with concern and curiosity. Emily refused to speak, so Penelope did.

"Hotch…"


	26. Chapter 26

**Okay… the four reviews were nice… well actually three, one wasn't on the latest chapter... thank you :) Even though it's the lowest amount of reviews I've gotten, only equal to reviews on chapter 6. I understand people don't want to bother reviewing, I feel similarly, but it really does brighten my day. Critique helps too - I've gotten plenty of it and taken advice willingly. Just no "I hate your story blah blah" because those kind of reviews aren't helpful, nor inspiring, thank you very much. I know this is unexpected, but thank you to **Rosajean—**I know I can always rely on you for a review, and they all truly mean a lot.**

**You, my faithful readers, will be happy to know I had a sudden epiphany the other day while reading over some very helpful reviews I've forgotten about. I now have a skeleton for the remainder of the story (all thanks to you guys!), and don't worry, I don't have an end in sight quite yet. Updates should be a tad more frequent from here on out, especially if chapters continue like this one did: this one was much longer than I intended, and has therefore been split. Ah well, more to entertain you with.**

**For Saving, I've been receiving some reviews that do point out some flaws—big ones—that I have to reconsider and deal with before posting the next chapter. The plot is solid—the details are not. If you have any advice, I'd love to hear it.**

**This chapter is a filler, but I feel it's important because it gives you insight as to how things have been progressing the past two weeks, and a little bit on how tentative Hotch is about approaching this situation. Lastly, the quote is referring to Hotch.**

**As always, R&R!**

* * *

"_I don't know if there are words to describe my motivation.__" –Lorrie Fair_

* * *

Hotch was typically a perceptive man. He was very thankful for this quality, especially in this situation, among others. Penelope was tense; unsure how Emily was going to respond, unsure how she should regard Hotch's abrupt appearance, unsure where to go or what to say. Emily, meanwhile, was fixing him with a wary and ever so slightly glassy stare from the back of the hallway, and it reminded him briefly of a refugee hiding in the shadows, suspicious of everyone, waiting until it was safe to come out. In fact, that was probably a very accurate analogy.

Hotch's first instinct was to ask if he could come in, but then he realized Penelope would attempt to consult Emily, who would likely freeze up and refuse to respond. Then again, she was very unpredictable, but he presumed the last thing she wanted to do was speak directly to him. He reconsidered; the last time he had spoken to her had been two weeks ago. Perhaps things had changed, but for now, he'd rather not risk her having a fit. Not only did it mean that she suffered, but he would as well.

Penelope, apparently, took his visible hesitation (which was actually a fierce debate over what to say that would have the desired effect) as expectancy, and stuttered out a greeting that was pseudo polite, but easily betrayed her agitation. "H-Hotch… nice t-to see you, um… I uh, I'm sorry, I uh, we, weren't uh, expec-cting you."

Her last syllable was pronounced in a tone that made it seem as though she wanted to say something more, but she seemed to quell that notion after a few seconds, deciding it best not to invite him in, considering this was Emily's house. After all, Penelope was lucky that she was allowed into Emily's home; she softly asked her to leave most nights before limping into her bedroom and disappearing for the night. Some mornings, even, when Penelope showed up to cook her meals for the day, she stoically asked her to leave. Whether or not she eventually went hungry on those days, Penelope couldn't be certain, but she always received the impression that had it not been for her, Emily would have starved. Penelope often spent time wondering what went on in Emily's head to decide whether or not she should permit her presence or dismiss her, but she always came to the same excuse of instability, and she'd abandon the topic.

"I apologize," Hotch said, getting Penelope back on track and settling her nerves just a little. It always seemed to alleviate her stress and panic whenever a reliable authoritative figure was by her side. "I wan—"

"Come in," Emily interrupted commandingly, moving herself forward. Before either party of the duo could think up an appropriate response, Emily had disappeared, crutches and all, into her own home.

Hotch was mildly shocked; not only had she taken a leap he presumed her unprepared for by vocally acknowledging him, but had it not been for the constant blankness that had taken over every aspect of her countenance and her tone, he was sure she would have sounded irritated with him.

Penelope, on the other hand, wore an expression similar to one that someone might have donned had they witnessed a three headed cow riding a unicycle down a highway. The moment might have even been comical if the conditions weren't dismal.

"Penelope," he spoke quietly to her once he recovered from the shock, lightly grasping her by the forearm to shake her out of her trance. As he watched, though, her expression minutely transformed and she seemed transfixed, lingering in her own thoughts. By the looks of it, they weren't exactly positive ones either and, come to think of it, she had looked more or less the same before she had noticed him. His curiosity flared, and he desperately wanted to inquire as to what it was, obviously related to Emily, that had her, bright, cheery, lively, jovial, mirthful, the-world-is-good-if-you-believe-in-it Penelope, in such a melancholy daze.

Once he released her, she took a few steps to follow him, her eyes suddenly glued to the floor again. Hotch sighed under his breath; the direction this confrontation was taking, he'd soon find out anyway, whether he accepted the truth or not.

Perhaps ignorance really was bliss. Perhaps he wanted to turn around before he uncovered what had taken place that day that had taken Penelope, the Penelope he knew, so aback that she had been reduced to a temporary state of numbness as a method of toleration or endurance. If whatever this significant piece of knowledge was dramatic enough to do this to Penelope, what could it do to him?

But no, he couldn't. He knew that. He couldn't turn around because this, whatever this turned out to be, was pertaining to Emily, and that was reason enough.

With this fresh motivation in mind and determination in his step, he guided Penelope into Emily's small apartment. Before the team had departed on the case from hell, but after he was made aware of Emily's return, he had made efforts to regain her old apartment. Ultimately, he had been unable to; a couple had signed a lease on it already. During the three days before the entire team's capture, while they had been making good progress on the profile, he had taken some spare time to secure a new apartment for Emily, and here it was. He figured it was sufficient for now, until she was back on her feet and she could assist and add her input in the matter of upgrading her home. Sergio, on the other hand, had taken a leave with a local clinic until he could be returned to his owner. Unfortunately, that reunion was taking longer than originally predicted.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold into her house, Penelope in tow, he realized Emily was nowhere in sight. Not even a trace of her, save her crutches, hurriedly discarded against a living room wall.

As though she were on autopilot, Penelope continued walking forward until she reached Emily's small, dark sandy brown couch and sat on it as if her body had gained properties similar to those of lead. Hotch followed, taking a seat next to her and waiting only seconds before her attention was leveled on him.

Her eyes looked at him pleadingly, and Hotch could only puzzle over why. But firstly, there were more immediate questions at hand, if trifling and comparatively petty. It hadn't been the opening question he had intended on asking, but he found himself querying anyhow, "where's Emily?"


	27. Chapter 27

**Sorry for the delay—as usual—it was difficult writing someone else's pain when I had so much of my own. But, I like this chapter. Don't ask me why. It's far from a filler, though it may appear so. It's the first note of positivity in all 27 chapters, and even I'm overjoyed to write it, despite my preferences for darkness. Other than that, no notes, unless you watch Leverage or Hot in Cleveland—both premiered their new seasons this past week. Both are very good, and their fandoms don't do them justice in my opinion. I could post a reminder that advice would be welcomed on a few issues in **Saving**. Like I said, plot is absolutely solid, wrought with twists and surprises and probably things you've never seen or heard of before put together in Criminal Minds fanfiction, I'd like to believe anyhow, but the details that people have been commenting on have stalled me. If you have any suggestions, please let me know via PM.**

**Thank you for the reviews, and I'm especially pleased to see that I've gotten a few more than the past few chapters have! Even **E**, yes, an anonymous reviewer, who only said "Good", brightened me up considerably. It's the acknowledgment that someone reads and enjoys—no matter how vague it may be. So, as per usual…**

**R&R!**

* * *

"_I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe.__" –Dalai Lama_

* * *

Penelope glanced up at him with a look that, coming from her, was as easy to read as a book: something along the lines of, _"you're not going to like what you're going to hear." _The look was familiar, after years of cases that involved working with Penelope, or as she referred to herself, "the oracle of wisdom." As he had often learned, especially now, the wisdom she had to share wasn't always positively or emotionally beneficial.

"She's changing her own bandages," Penelope reported dejectedly, her eyes shifting to a point somewhere next to them, anywhere where she wouldn't have to admit utter defeat.

"Her own bandages?" Hotch repeated for clarification, not bothering to hide the surprise and distress creeping into his tone.

Penelope nodded solemnly. "She insists on doing it herself. Won't let me help her."

"What happens if you try?" Hotch asked, curiosity beginning to overcome his initial plans.

"First, she adamantly insists I leave. If I persist, she gets confused," she recalled glumly. The same routine, a constant cycle, occurred so frequently by now (because Penelope couldn't bare imagining the pain Emily must go through attempting to twist and bend to apply her own bandages, especially based on the time it took before she reemerged, and was certain that somewhere, in that clear little part of her traumatized mind, Emily was aware of her weakness and the need for assistance. Penelope held out a frail hope that Emily would, at some point, stumble upon that clarity and embrace it; however, the idealistic occasion had yet to come about) that the details in her mind were resembling the vividness that the ones in Reid's eidetic mind possessed. To demand that she recollect the tantamount instances, or something of the like very akin to what typically happened, was not a difficult request at all. She could strikingly retell of any element, varying from the basic color scheme of her bathroom, to the haunting, blank look that persistently lingered in her features.

"Confused, how?"

Penelope pondered a moment. Lacking in the abilities to discern the minutest components and analyze them, she had, until now, categorized Emily's behavior under the plain, broad, and simple term "confusion." Replaying the scene in her head, she studied Emily's conduct a tad further, and came to a hesitant conclusion.

"It's like she's at a loss for words. She doesn't know what to say to me anymore, I think. She gets hysterical, and that's when I concede and walk away." Penelope looked up into the calculating gaze of Hotch, whose mind was half elsewhere, exploring possibilities Penelope hadn't thought of. However, he tarried on the subject no longer, and instead opted to attack at the more pressing—and concerning—matter, which he wasted no time in vocalizing.

"Gar—Penelope, may I ask what had you so disturbed preceding my visit?"

Always the polite one. Not that his purposely exercised diplomatic accent softened the blow of reality any to Penelope, but it wasn't as though he were actually asking permission. They both knew that no matter which manner Hotch chose to use in order to extract the information from Penelope, she'd confide it in him anyway; eventually, even without the prompting. This was not an issue that Penelope could keep to herself for a multitude of potent reasons, no matter how involved, or the opposite thereof, Hotch was in recent affairs regarding Emily (namely, the past two weeks).

She blurted it out before she could reconsider, or even feel the sting of her own words. "On the way back from the therapist, we finally talked—a little." At this Hotch quirked an inquiring brow, but refrained from interrupting. "She initiated conversation," she informed him, receiving the impression that the question was on the tip of Hotch's tongue. "She told me…" This next part, no matter how initially composed she had been when beginning the admission, she could not speak in an indifferent tone of.

Her throat clenched painfully, and fresh sobs built in her chest. She continued to delay the tears until Hotch understood why she shed them, evened out her voice as best as possible and practically squeaked out the worst bit, the bit that had managed to metaphorically shove her off of her feet. "She told me she's planning to commit suicide." The words tasted bitter and foul on her tongue, and they shocked her enough to topple her into a tearful fit.

Before Hotch allowed the statement to have their impact on him, he permitted—in fact, encouraged and pushed—his profiler instincts to take action. They instantly picked up on something in her brief admittance that bothered him.

"She told you?"

Penelope blinked, surprised. She had entirely been expecting him to have a _very _different reaction—hell, he had been predicting more or less the same—but instead he was interrogating her, for lack of a better word. Whether or not she should feel hopeful that he picked up on something, she had no clue; one of Hotch's talents, among others, was keeping emotion at bay until it was appropriate. When not even he was sure, she couldn't, shouldn't, get her hopes up.

"Y-yes," she stuttered, striving to reign in her tears until Hotch was satisfied. "Why?"

He nimbly avoided her question for the moment and instead continued, "you didn't guess correctly?"

"No, I-I could-d have ne-ever gues-sed tha-at she wo-ould cons-sider suic-cide…" Now an intense desire to see what Hotch was seeing was streaming through her blood.

"As is often the case," Hotch began to explain in what could be considered an effective "legal" tone (Penelope assumed to stifle the pain that she was sure he must be feeling from this announcement), "Individuals tend to make dramatic proclamations in order to direct or focus attention or concern onto themselves, as I'm sure you've likely witnessed on a smaller scale."

"E-Em want-ts attent-tion? I don-n't underst-tand. What ar-re you say-ying?"

They both startled at the surprisingly loud sound of some sort of plastic hitting marble. In an automatic reaction Penelope moved to stand, her head turned in the direction of the hallway, presumably down which the bathroom, and therefore Emily, were situated. Before either of them could become too fraught or overwhelmed with worry, Hotch lightly grasped Penelope's wrist again, lowering her back down to the couch.

"You'll check on her in a moment," Hotch assured, firstly needing to provide some sincere, genuine hope for the first time since Emily returned. So far, blessings were being counted on the fingers of one hand, and this was the third finger going up—the first two being for the overall state of the team once they escaped from Louis' clutches, and Emily's miraculous survival, at least physically.

"Penelope," he regained her attention, though she appeared an odd mixture of languid, catatonic, and frantic.

"What I mean to say is that I think that this may be Emily's subconscious way of admitting she needs help, and she may be ready to at least try to accept it."


	28. Chapter 28

**Hate all you want - I'm on Cloud 9, and I totally deserve the hatred you guys probably have in store for me anyways. 8th grade is freaking _busy_, so updates will most definitely be sporadic (in case you didn't get that already ^_^).**

**Just so you guys know, I've been keeping up with your reviews, and I've even had tears in my eyes a few times reading every single one of them. You have no clue how serious I am about writing, about writing in my future, and about this fanfic - the biggest piece I've ever written to date, and definitely a strong foundation. I can't thank you enough. I know plenty of you out there read and don't review, and that's okay, I understand, I'm not pressing you to review, but thanks. Everyone. Your ongoing support has had me, like I said, in tears a couple of times, and has been the main motivator for really pushing this chapter out. Also, I did read reviews for ideas. So, thanks for that, too. I always take your hopes for this story and your feedback into consideration. No review is left unread (although I don't tend to respond individually unless I really have a response I need to make :P).**

**Sorry for the long AN, but - **greengirl82**, here's birthday present #1. It wasn't the first present I had been planning to upload, honestly, but it was the first I got done after having watched tonight's episode, "Proof". Was not nearly enough Emily, so I took it upon myself to fill the void, and thank you for your support and for writing the stories that you do. Your PMs kept going through my head when my mind told me to leave this alone for tonight. I'm so sorry, but here you go, I hope it's satisfactory - and I do have a plan for the next chapter.**

**Speaking of which, sorry for the total lack of dialogue. I thought it to be more of a morose chapter.  
**

**Very lastly, happy new year to those of you who are of the same ethnic background as myself. I feel like this was a great date to get a chapter up for, because it means a lot to me. Also, I'm not quite certain on the quote for this chapter, but I do like it, and I do feel it fits. I'd like to hear your thoughts, if you read the quote, my dear readers.**

* * *

_"A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value." —Isaac Asimov_

* * *

Penelope was no profiler, but even so, she didn't cut herself any slack. Sure, she had contemplated the possibility earlier on, but she'd been too scared to give it any serious thought. Now, when her worries had been _verbally confirmed_, she had still left her alone by herself.

In the bathroom, nonetheless, which had not been suicide-proofed, or whatever they called it.

Penelope idly rubbed her left thumb over the limp knuckles in her grasp, studying the skin there that had healed completely, leaving no scars. Penelope gave a light squeeze as the ambulance jostled yet again, but otherwise, it was silent, save for the screaming sirens. The alarms blended into the background for Penelope; her having become grimly accustomed.

She should have expected this, damn it. As the quiescent tears trekked down her cheeks, she reviewed, tried to pinpoint what she had done wrong. Doubt clawed at her insides, more so than she could remember from the past few years.

Of course, she had made mistakes before. Everyone had. Penelope was definitely a big supporter of the motto, "Nobody's perfect." In fact, she'd even go so far as to say it described her pretty accurately.

But, it wasn't just a mistake she had made here this day. No, the consequences weighed far too heavily for it to even be _near _the minor magnitude of a mere _mistake._ It occurred to her that she had neglected her friend, had overlooked her extremely unstable mental health, just because she had been too unsteady herself.

Emily most definitely needed more reassurance than she did. Maybe she should reunite her with the cat that currently shared her home with her. Sergio always managed to put a smirk on Penelope's face. That was, return him once Emily was out of the hospital.

Again.

At least this visit, it was a small reassurance that Emily would come out fine, physically. Penelope's curiosity had risen to a level so high that she could deny fulfilling it no longer, and had stumbled upon an unconscious Emily leaning almost peacefully against the wall of her bathroom, her hands trembling just slightly, the plastic bottle of pills broken open on the marble floors.

Penelope's initial realization had been, _so that's what I heard._ Moments later had been when the situation sank in, and a blind panic had erased her memory up until now. She'd have to ask Hotch later, although, she was sure her reaction, whatever it might have been, hadn't been all that great, nor productive or helpful in the least.

She was also sure that somehow, Hotch had a level head right now, wherever he was (she presumed tailing the ambulance in his own car, but she daren't relinquish her position to glance out the back windows). Penelope had to wonder what exactly it was Hotch was feeling right now. Minutes ago, he had been giving her a slimmer of hope, a chance, a ray of light at the end of the endless tunnel.

Both teammates had had that hope swept from right under their feet. Morbid and horrible as it was, Penelope questioned if a break—even such a permanent one—might have been in Emily's best interest. But still, the suicide attempt hurt, in a much different way.

Penelope desperately wished to talk to Emily again—really talk—like they had that beautiful day in the hospital. Emily had been alright, then. She had been cracking, anyone could have said that, but she had been alright. Conversations now with Emily had a more detached feeling to them, that the attempts at talking were halfhearted. Always distracted, she was, by some unseen force that always seemed to loom over Penelope's shoulder, or behind their backs.

Tears splashed on her wrists. Why had she tried now? Was there such an unbelievable, overwhelming urgency that she went ahead with the act, even knowing that she and Hotch were just in the other room?

The whole thing was unfathomable. Informing Penelope about her portended suicide had not been a method of letting her know she was ready to accept help. That was where Hotch had miscalculated.

It had been a warning.

A choked sob and tears blinded her vision. The ambulance jumped again. The cold slipped away from her hands, replaced by droplets. Still, the vehicle rattled on.

* * *

Penelope walked lethargically down the aisles, observing but not perceiving the various tchotchkes and trinkets that adorned the shelves. There were snow globes, depicting heavenly scenes of winter wonderlands. There were stuffed animals, bears and rabbits and cats and dogs, all with smiles stitched onto their furry faces. There were a few magazines, balloons, a section in the back of the store for custom floral arrangements, get well cards and other related messages; random assortments of items that were ultimately worthless but pretty to look at.

Once upon a time, she would have been gleefully skipping down these aisles, wondering which meaningless toy might cheer Emily up. Now… now she was just browsing for her own frustration at the lack of anything better or more productive to do. It kept her thoughts occupied, a reprieve from the torture her own mind bestowed on her.

She paused, running the pad of her pointer finger along the rough pink glitter on a bright green card that spelled out, "_We love you, always. –Your family_." Once her finger finished the curve on the _y _in _family,_ she let her quivering hand rest back at her side, whimpers and hiccups overcoming her.

She bought the card and hurried to Emily's room.

* * *

Hotch sat stiffly in the navy blue plastic chair, practically feeling the stress lines as they etched themselves in his features. He was coming to the same confidence degrading conclusion as Penelope had; he had most definitely misinterpreted Emily's reasoning—whatever was left of it.

He chastised himself for adding in that mental comment. Emily still had reasoning, he knew that. She wasn't entirely shattered, entirely devoid of whom she once was. The only way he could think of that ever happening to Emily would have been if Doyle had eventually made good on his threat to kill her friends and their families.

Good thing they, JJ, Emily, and himself, had gone to extreme lengths to prevent that.

Was it good?

He had to once again convince himself that simulating Emily's death had been the right choice at the time. Hotch was not a man to regret decisions he made in the past, especially when they affected his team, his friends, his family, so strongly. Lives had been saved, and that was what he had to focus on.

Conflicted, Hotch sighed heavily, dropping his head into both of his hands. Death was an awful thing, he decided finally, dropping the matter.

Except, a nagging feeling told him to reanalyze, for purely professional reasons, the situation and identify where he had misunderstood. Emily's admittance had most definitely not been the same cry of help that teenagers were stereotypically known for. He mentally kicked himself, and hard—he had inadvertently demeaned Emily from a strong woman to a still-confused teenager. Emily was far more complex than that at this point in her life, after having witnessed and experienced what she had.

Her confession had been a _warning_. Perhaps had he not visited, her attempt would have been prolonged, but, he guessed, not by much. For her to verbalize her thoughts, she must have had it on her mind for a while; thus, he successfully evaded putting the blame on himself.

A doleful sniffle, the only sound in the room, caught his attention, and he watched as Penelope stepped into the room, clinging to a plastic lifeline.

He was unable to hide the weariness from his expression as he stood to give the two women some privacy, his eyes shifting to meet Penelope's for only a fleeting moment before he departed.

Penelope hesitated before reclaiming the seat Hotch had just vacated by Emily's bedside, the weightless plastic bag clutched unnecessarily tight in her hands.

There, she waited, left to her own thoughts.


End file.
